


John, I'm a Wizard

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: The Sherlock!Wizardverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Children, Christmas, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Parentlock, Wizards, dark wizards, mild to moderate ginny bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 88,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hudson and Harriet Watson-Holmes always get a bedtime story. This time they've demanded to know about when John learned their father was a wizard. The actual events weren't exactly all child-friendly... So this is the bedtime version.<br/>Amidst the tale of that strange and bizzare Christmas holiday life at Baker Street continues on. With both sad and wondrous surprises along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Two heads of curly, sandy blond hair rested on pink and blue pillows respectively. Two small beds took up each side of the room, with matching night stands side by side beneath the window between them.

Two sets of ashen eyes watched from above the identical duvets as a man stood at a bookshelf near the door. He was carefully considering which book to choose when he heard a little boy’s voice pipe up behind him.

“Tell us a story about you and father,” he said.

“Which one?” he asked as he selected an old, well worn book from the shelf and moved to sit at the end of the pink bed.

“The one about that mean Mr. Moriarty!” the boy exclaimed, sitting up in his bed and letting the duvet fall to his lap. He hugged a stuffed penguin tightly, ash colored eyes wide in anticipation.

“No,” he said.

The girl sat up straight, hugging a stuffed hedgehog. “Then what about when you learned father was a wizard!”

“Yeah!” the boy chimed in.

He sighed. “That’s a really long story,” he said, running a hand down his face. “Why don’t I just read you more of **The Hobbit** instead?”

“No no. We wanna know about you and father and the wizards!”

The little boy nodded. “Yeah. Harry’s right! We wanna hear the story!” The boy was all but jumping on the bed now.

“Hudson, you plant that bottom and get right back under those blankets,” he said sternly.

The boy pouted, much in the same manner his father pouted when their daddy used that tone of voice. They all called that tone _The Captain_ because he sounded like he was ordering people about when he used it.

Hudson groaned, climbed back under his duvet, and hugged the penguin. Once both children were settled, he opened the book but didn’t get a chance to read.

Harry, the girl, grinned. “Uncle Greggy says it’s a romantic story.”

“You’re five. You shouldn’t know about romantic stories,” he said.

Hudson puffed out his cheeks. He was clearly annoyed. “Uncle Crofty says it’s a funny story.”

There was a soft chuckle from the open door behind him. “He would say that.”

John turned enough to see behind him. There stood Sherlock. Wrapped in his dark blue dressing gown and fighting to keep from smiling too much. He was, after all, still Sherlock Holmes. The cold and calculating consulting detective. Smiling as much as he’d liked would spoil his reputation. But he couldn’t help but tease. “Come on, John. It is a rather fascinating story.”

John groaned, causing both children to giggle from their beds. They knew that their father could always get their daddy to do whatever it was they wanted. Unless, of course, daddy was acting like _The Captain_. Then none of them would have any luck.

“Fine,” John said at last, closing his book and setting it to the side. But he cast a half-hearted glare to Sherlock. “But you’re going to help.”

“Of course.” And with that, the consulting wizard detective strolled into the room. “Otherwise you will no doubt leave out crucial details of the story.”

When Sherlock sat opposite John at the end of Hudson’s bed, the doctor leaned forward and said so only Sherlock could hear, “Nothing sordid. They’re only five.”

“Then I leave the majority of the story in your capable hands of censorship,” Sherlock said, then added louder so the children could hear, “Now then, John. Where shall we start?”

“Well…” John replied as he got more comfortable and racked his brain. It had been seven years since that Christmas, after all. “It was late November-“

“December seventh.”

“Right. And we were just wrapping up a case-“

“I believe you titled it _The Case of the Belligerent Barista_ on the blog,” Sherlock added helpfully. Causing both children to giggle.

“Yes,” John snapped in annoyance. “Now can I tell the story before the kids turn eleven and have to leave for boarding school?”

Sherlock smirked. “Of course, John. Proceed.”

“Thank you.”

The children giggled again at the exchange. They always giggled when their daddies bickered. Because it was always so funny.

“As I was saying,” John said, turning to his children. “We were just wrapping up a case. Your father was doing one final experiment in the kitchen to prove whether or not the victim was burned with a specific brand of coffee that could only be found at this one specific cafe in Ealing. There really wasn’t anything left for me to do, so I made a cuppa and sat down to read the paper…”

* * *

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“Sherlock?” John.

“Thinking,” the consulting detective said, sitting at the kitchen table with his fingers steepled under his chin. Test tubes filled with murky water and coffee grounds. Another experiment. Another possible lead to his latest case.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“Sherlock, it’s an owl.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was completely engrossed in his thought processes. Locked away in his mind palace as he worked through the theories concerning the coffee grounds. John sighed when his flatmate didn’t move. “Typical,” he muttered, setting down his tea and rising from his chair to cross the room to the window. He peeked out and there, tapping the glass, was an owl.

“It’s an eagle owl,” Sherlock said without moving. Without even looking at the window before lapsing back into silence.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

John was just about to open the window when it flew away, but something looked like it had been clutched in its talons. The soldier’s forehead creased as he frowned, but he shrugged it off and went back to his chair.

He was only given a moment’s peace before the two men heard the downstairs door burst open and a horrified shriek from Mrs. Hudson.

Seconds later John nearly jumped out of his chair when the owl dropped a package in his lap, causing him to spill his tea. The large bird found a good place to perch, right on the back of Sherlock’s chair across from John.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called as she raced into the room. John was just picking up the package, inspecting it closely when Sherlock snapped at him.

But it was too late. John had opened the package, and a letter tumbled out with a few other mysterious items.

Sherlock groaned when the letter hovered in the air, reshaped itself to resemble a letter with a large mouth and started shouting.

_**“SEVERUS JAMES POTTER-MALFOY!”**_ the letter boomed in a rather angry voice, and John could only stare, wide eyed as Mrs. Hudson fainted. Sherlock on the other hand let out a long, mournful moan.

“…He sent a bloody Howler…” Sherlock groaned while John tried his best to regain his wits.

The owl only looked at the three of them, blinking before preening itself while waiting to be given a reply and sent on its way.

“Sherlock! There’s a letter!”

And the letter kept shouting at them, or rather, more specifically Sherlock. **“You fake your death and don’t bother to inform your parents that you’re still alive! Your mother was worried sick about you! Your sister had to be taken to St. Mungos because she was so distraught! Just because your brother was an ass does not give you the right to give your entire family nightmares!…”**

“It’s a… It’s a floating…” John muttered, ignoring the tea cooling on his jumper. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“My father is expressing his anger at me through a letter. Do keep up, John,” Sherlock said drily as the howler just continued nearby.

**“…And another thing! You** _**WILL** _ **be attending the holidays at home. You** _**WILL** _ **be on your best behavior. And you** _**WILL** _ **bring your friend because I am not going to allow you to use your muggle friend as an excuse to get out of your familial obligations** _**again** _ **.”**

Then, just when the two men thought it was over, the floating letter turned away from Sherlock to John as if it could sense him in the room. Its voice was softer and much more polite than it had been while shouting abuse at Sherlock. “John we simply cannot wait to meet you. Mycroft has told us so much about Sev’s little muggle boyfriend. He’ll be bringing his as well so you won’t feel so awkward. We look forward to your company for the holidays and trust you to keep my prodigal son on his best behavior during your visit.”

And with that, much to John’s amazement, the letter ripped itself to shreds and landed in a pile on the carpet.

“Sherlock?” John asked, not taking his eyes away from the pile of paper as if afraid it would some how pull itself back together to spout off more abuse.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

“You know I hate repetition, John,” Sherlock said in that same even tone he always spoke in when he found things to be less than interresting. “Well, I suppose now is a good time to tell you. I’m a wizard.”

“Excuse me?”

“I will not repeat myself,” Sherlock said evenly, and turned on his heel to return to his experiment.

The owl just cocked its head and stared at John with mild interest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

It had taken John a while to get Mrs. Hudson back around and downstairs to her own flat. Once he was assured she did not injure her already dodgy hip and hadn’t concussed herself when she’f allen, he went back upstairs. For a moment he hesitate, unsure if he should go in or continue up to his bedroom.

“John!”

Well, that his decision made for him.

“John! I need your mobile!”

John took a deep breath and went inside. “You’re not getting my phone until you explain-“

“Not important,” Sherlock said, holding his hand out expectantly. Waiting for the device to be dropped into it as normal. “Now give. I’ve just solved-“

“Why don’t you send a screaming floating letter from hell?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn’t look at his flatmate. “You know I prefer to text,” he said coldly.

In the end, John gave him the phone. John **always** gave him the phone.

* * *

“The floating letter, or rather, what John still refers to as _the Owl Incident_ was not brought up for three days. And we didn’t say a word to one another about anything else for that matter.”

Hudson’s eyes were wide as he looked at his father. “Three whole days?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

Harry was equally enthralled. “Then what happened?” she asked.

Their father was about to answer when John shook his head and said “I think that’s enough for tonight. We’re going to visit Mrs. Hudson in the hospital and your father’s got a big important meeting with Mr. Dimmock he can’t miss.”

The twins groaned in protest as Sherlock and John stood to tuck them in. After bidding them goodnight, the two men stepped out onto the stairs and closed the door. “Good call with that three days of silence bit,” John said as they made their way down to the flat proper.

Sherlock nodded before speaking as they went through the door into the livingroom. “I did not think it relevent to scare them with the truth,” he said, passing by to go straight for the kitchen, needing a drink. “Two days of angry swearing before a day of volatile silence during which you packed your bags to leave.”

“And you killed the owl,” John said, moving Sherlock out of the way to put the kettle on.

Sherlock waved a hand as he leaned against the kitchen table. “An accident. I was… distracted.”

“It ate your toast and spilled your tea,” John replied with a small smile… though at the time he’d been horrified that the poor bird had been utterly destroyed by a stray _reducto_. “That was retalliation.”

When he’d finished making their tea, John sighed. “Bed?”

“Not tired. Need to think.”

“Of course. Don’t wake me if you come to bed.”

Sherlock gave a hummed response as he strode dramatically out of the kitchen with his tea. John just yawned and took his tea to the bedroom.

**o0o**

For John the day was spent running errands with the children. Hudson needed new shoes. (His previous pair having been cut to pieces by both Hudson and Sherlock for sake of an experiment that morning before John had woken up.) And Harriet wanted a new jumper because, like Hudson’s shoes… Well, clothing often became test subjects in the Watson-Holmes flat.

They’d visited Mrs. Hudson, and gave her well wishes for a speedy recovery. Harriet gave her a picture of a hedgehog, a cat, two baby hedgehogs, and a very fluffy purple poodle. Apparently this was Harriet’s little family portrait meant to cheer the old landlady up.

Hudson deduced that her nurses were idiots and her doctors weren’t much better.

It cheered the old woman up greatly.

Now, their day drawn to a close, they were once more tucked into their beds. The pair of them snuggled up under their duvets with their stuffed critters. And once again, John was just sitting down to read them a story when Harry piped up and said, “Tell us more of the story.”

“Yeah!” Hudson piped up. “We wanna know what happened next!”

“No.”

“Why not?” they whined in chorus. Then Harry said, “Uncle Greggy will tell us if you don’t.” Then, she pouted.

Hudson wasn’t far behind, copying his sister’s actions but also making it quite clear that if their daddy didn’t listen then he’d start one of his famous _deducing tantrums_. Complete with a full dress-down of every fault he could see with everyone around him. The more embarassing… the better.

John rubbed his face and set aside his chosen book again with a groan. “You two won’t let this go, will you?”

“Nope,” they said, shaking their heads at the same moment.

John sighed and resigned himself to his fate. That and he didn’t want to have to try and stop Hudson if he managed to really get started… Sometimes that boy was far worse than Sherlock could hope to be. “Fine… Where shall I pick up then?”

Hudson was positively smirking. “How about when you met Grandpa Draco?”

“Yeah! Uncle Crofty said that was REALLY funny!” Harriet exclaimed.

John stared at them a moment, reminded himself to punch Mycroft square in the nose the next time he was kidnapped, and started the next leg of the story.

“Okay…” He drew in a deep breath. “Your father and I hadn’t spoken to one another in three days, remember. And I was just coming home from the surgery when I bumped into Mrs. Hudson…”

* * *

“Oh John! There you are!”

John had just about put his hand to the door when it was flung open and a very distraught Mrs. Hudson stood there, pulling on his arm. From upstairs John could hear Sherlock shouting. Then another voice shouting back at him.

“I thought he might have been a client so I let him in. You know, how they always just turn up out of the blue and…” She trailed off as another string of shouting, this time Sherlock angrily deducing whoever was in the flat with him, came down the stairs.

John ushered Mrs. Hudson back into 221A, promising to go up and check on their dear Sherlock and make sure he was alright. Though, John himself wasn’t ready to talk to him after _the Owl Incident_.

The sound of lightning striking something made them both jump, and Mrs. Hudson cried out, “What is he doing up there?”

“Just stay. Stay in here,” John said, then bolted from the flat. He took the stairs two at a time, racing to see if Sherlock was alright. When he came through the open door, he saw his flatmate standing behind the broken chair, John’s of course, with a stick in his hand.

“I’ve told you,” Sherlock snapped angrily. This… was the second time John had ever seen him this emotional over anything. The first had been after John had punched him in the eye seconds after being reunited with his supposedly dead best friend. “Nothing you say or do will make me leave this flat!”

“Sherlock?”

“Go back downstairs.”

“Hm. Must be your?…” the stranger said, stepping where John could see him. The doctor took an instinctive step back, watching the stranger carefully. His mind quickly picking out details, like Sherlock had taught him. He was tall, with high cheekbones like Sherlock’s. His voice, what little John had been able to hear, was identical to the screaming letter. Oh… that bizzare floating piece of paper… Eyes. The same shade… no. Duller. They’d seen a lot in their life.

He was smartly dressed. A suit and tie. More like Mycroft than Sherlock, John decided. His eyes cut to the stick in the man’s hand and he took a step back.

“If you want to remain a bipedal creature, I suggest you leave. **Now**.”

“Honestly Severus-“

“Sherlock,” the detective corrected with a bite to his voice that made John gasp involuntarily.

The other man rolled his eyes and flicked his wand, muttering something under his breath. Sherlock positively growled at him, and tried to move. Quickly he found it to be impossible.

The stranger turned his attention back to John with a smirk. Yes, that same smirk John saw when Sherlock was up to something. “I apologize. Severus-“

Sherlock managed to get out a muffled something or other. John assumed he was correcting the man again.

“Is often a handful. When the owl didn’t come back, his mother began to worry he had fallen into another fit of melancholy.”

“I… Uh…” John stammered, backing up as the stranger came closer. Mentally he was calculating how fast he could get up the stairs, to his room, to his gun, and hadn’t noticed the man offering a friendly hand.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” he said, waiting for John to take his hand. When he didn’t, the stranger merely shrugged. “I had hoped we could be civil, but as you can see…” He gestured to the ruined livingroom.

When John finally managed to find his voice, he croaked out, “You’re not going to turn me into a toad or a smurf or something, are you?” He swallowed hard.

The stranger chuckled. “No no. Why would I do that?”

“That’s what wizards do, though.”

He sighed and left John where he was to sit on the only piece of non-damaged furnature. Sherlock’s favorite chair. “Muggles… Where in the world do you get those sorts of ideas from? Not all wizards are evil old men. No matter what my sons may have led you to believe.”

“So you are a wizard?”

“Yes.”

“Wizards are real?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re-“

He sighed and looked over to Sherlock. “How do you put up with this day after day?” he asked. Sherlock continued to glare straight ahead, frozen in anger and annoyance. Not much different than his normal self, actually. “I’ll unbind you only if you promise to behave. I will summon Mycroft if I have to.”

John wasn’t quite sure what to make of this now. Somehow he thought maybe this were a coma dream. He must have gotten injured while on that last case. He was now lying in bed, in a coma, and this was his subconcious trying to somehow explain the utter strangeness that was Sherlock Holmes and his incredible cheekbones and upturned collar of cool.

At last, Sherlock was able to move again after the stranger muttered something and swished his wand a bit.

Instantly he ran to John, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to leave. Go. Get out of here. Go to the bar. Get drunk with Stamford. When you return-“

“Sherlock?”

“No time John,” he said, trying to push John back out of the flat.

“Is that-“

“Yes. Clearly for once in your life your observations are correct. Now **go** ,” he growled.

“Severus, please, don’t act so childish!”

Sherlock drew a deep breath and turned his head, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. “My name is _Sherlock_.”

“Hey, I didn’t name you. Now get back over here so we can discuss the holiday plans like adults. For Merlin’s sake, you’re 82, not 12!”

“I am NOT-“

“You’re **_82_**?”

Sherlock looked back at John, who was thoroughly confused now. The detective searched his face, trying to read him for any scrap of information. At last, he sighed. Trying to get John to leave so he could deal with this was no longer an option. And he didn’t want to _obliviate_ the poor man either. “John,” he said, causing the doctor to focus on him again. “Why don’t you go fix three cups of tea, and then, provided he stops destroying our flat-“

“You destroyed the flat,” the silver haired stranger called from behind him.

“And acts even half-way to civil, I’ll explain.”

Tea. Tea was the magic word. Tea was normal. Normal was what John Watson wanted right now. So, that’s exactly what he did. He went to go make some tea.

While John was busy in the kitchen trying to convince himself this was all just a coma dream, Sherlock glared at his unwanted guest while casting _repairo_ on various pieces of furnature.

All the while Draco Malfoy sat, legs crossed and his attention focused mostly, but not all, on the dirt under his fingernails. “Muggle homes are so… dirty,” he commented drily as he waited for John and the tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

The three men sat in silence. Sherlock sitting on the sofa. John sitting in his repaired chair. And the mysterious man sitting in Sherlock’s across from him. The two men sat in identical postures. Legs crossed, and hands steepled beneath their chins. Each expression on their faces identical. Each calculating gaze the exact same intensity.

Finally, it was John who broke the awkward silence. “So… Wizards then…”

“Let’s not do this,” Sherlock muttered.

“Clearly you had not informed your friend fully about yourself.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying the man in his chair. “It was not relevent.”

John took a swallow of tea. “Wizards as in _**Harry Potter**_ or Gandalf from _**Lord of the Rings**_?”

At the mention of _**Harry Potter**_ both men groaned, almost sounding like a single Sherlock groan in stereo. “We’re still getting fan mail sent to the house. We had to move from Godric’s Hollow because of it.”

“Pity. I actually tollerated living in that house,” Sherlock said, not even remotely interrested. “Now please, let’s get to the point of your intrusion into my personal life. Small talk is boring.”

“It would be best if you were to give me an explanation for me to take back home to your mother.”

“Fan mail?” John said to himself.

“Yes, fan mail. Harry bloody Potter fan mail. It only became worse after the Weaslet published her accursed books. Do keep up John,” Sherlock said, rather irritated. Moreso at their guest than at his friend. “What explanation is it you require? My supposed death, which frankly must have been a relief to the minister and all those aurors he sent after me. Or my negligence in alerting you to my status as still among the living?”

“Both would be preferable.”

Sherlock nodded, lowering his hands to place them on his thighs in thought, not really having anywhere else to put them. “I assume you’ve brought along veritaserum?” An eyebrow quirked.

The man mirrored his action. “Is it necessary?”

John finally got back into the conversation, though he was still a bit… thrown. “So you’re Harry Potter?”

“No,” both men snapped, again in stereo. Then, Sherlock rolled his eyes and settled further back onto the sofa cushions. “Draco Malfoy, John Watson. John, this is my father Draco. There, you’re introduced. This is becoming tedius.”

“I still need an explanation.”

* * *

“And your father told his father about what that mean Mr. Moriarty did to us, and why he didn’t tell anyone but Mrs. Hudson, me, and your uncle Greggy that he was still alive.”

“Why’s that?” Harry asked, peeking from under her blanket. Hudson yawned.

“Because daddy’s the most imporant person ever, duh.”

John nodded.

“Daddy?” Hudson asked, rubbing at his sleepy eyes. “Why did father not like Grandpa Draco?”

John sighed. That was a more complicated part of the story that he really didn’t have a full answer for. Sherlock didn’t like talking about his family more than he had to. He despised talking about his parents.

So, instead, John got up and tucked in Harriet. Kissed her forehead then moved over to repeat the action with Hudson. “I don’t know,” John said honestly, knowing the boy could tell if he was lying. “You’ll have to ask your father when you’re older.”

“When I’m six,” the boy said defiantly.

“Much older than that I’m afraid,” he replied. After checking that both were safe and snug, he picked up the abandoned book and set it back on the shelf before turning out the light.

When their daddy was gone, Harry hissed. “Hudson, you awake?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanna know why father doesn’t like Grandpa Draco.”

Hudson wanted to know as well. As far as he was concerned, his grandparents were really nice. A bit strange with their owls and their stories about turning people into ferrets and Quiddich. But they were still really nice. “Hey,” Hudson said at last. “Let’s ask father to tell us a story tomorrow night.”

“But I like daddy’s stories better.”

“But father’s stories will be longer and have more data. We need more data.”

Harriet nodded in agreement before turning to hug her stuffed hedgehog and go to sleep.

**o0o**

The mischevious little Holmes’ didn’t have a chance to ask their father to continue the story. Sherlock and John had left them with their uncles for a few nights while they sorted out a rather difficult case.

Hudson claimed they just wanted to be alone and have _kissy face time_. Harriet was excited because she got to spend time with her favorite relatives at 12 Grimmauld Place. She was quite fond of searching through the house looking for clues her uncle Crofty would set up for her.

But now, on this, their last night with their uncles, Harriet and Hudson were being put to bed by their uncle.

“Tell us a story,” Hudson said, glancing over to his sister in the other bed. She nodded at him. “We want a story.”

“Not tonight, loves,” Greg Lestrade said. “Did you brush your teeth?”

Harriet smiled, showing off her pearly whites. Greg looked over to Hudson, who did the same and added proudly, “Minty!”

“Good. John wouldn’t like it if your teeth fell out from eating so much cake.”

The twins giggled. It was a well known fact that their uncle Mycroft could never refuse cake. It was the subject of much bickering between he and Sherlock. And Mycroft had been feeling particularly stressed lately… so there had been much cake about.

“We can’t sleep without a story,” Harriet said, crossing her little arms over her chest.

“Okay princess. What story do you want to hear? Rapunzel? Puss-n-boots?”

Hudson scoffed. “Those are BORING!” he exclaimed overdramatically.

Greg sighed inwardly. This was not going to end well, he just knew it.

Harriet smirked. “Well,” she said. “Daddy’s been telling us the one about how father’s a wizard. And then he met grandpa Draco.”

“Oh!” he said happily. “Those! Yeah, the funny ones. Okay then. Where did John leave off?”

“Well, he just met Grandpa, and father wasn’t being very nice.”

He scratched at his stubbly chin. “Well…” he said. “I wasn’t there for that. Not my division.” As one the children pouted. “Hey hey now. Don’t make those Watson puppy faces at me. I can tell you a good story.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“About daddy and father?”

“I’ve got loads of ‘em!”

The twins grinned that evil, sneaky Holmes grin and settled back down again as their uncle Greg thought of what to tell them. Since it seemed John’s two stories were happening pretty close together, he might as well draw from the same time period. “Well, like I said, I don’t know what happened next, but I do know whatever it was it made your daddies go visit your grandparents because when your Uncle Mycroft and I got there…”

* * *

_“I distinctly told you we required TWO beds!”_

_“Sherlock-“_

_“No, John. Just. **No.** It was fine the first night. I did not need nor want to sleep. Now I do. And I require a bed.”_

_“Sherlock, I’ll take the sofa-“_

_“With your back? I think not!”_

_“I’m sure there’s other rooms-“_

_“John, the other rooms would eat you.”_

_“You’re joking! It doesn’t make sense. Rooms can’t just eat people.”_

Silence.

_“…You’re not joking. I know that look. Oh god, you’re not joking!”_

Mycroft and Lestrade stood in the parlour, looking at one another blankly for a moment after just stepping out of the fireplace. While still not a hundred percent comfortable with using the floo, Greg Lestrade prefered it over that dreadful _apparition_. The last time Mycroft had him travel side-along it did not end well, and the poor inspector wouldn’t touch ice cream for four months.

“…They haven’t even been here two full days and he’s already causing trouble…” Mycroft muttered under his breath as a door slammed somewhere further in the manor.

“Sev!” a female voice called out shortly before John Watson hurried through the parlour door.

He froze like a scared mouse when he saw Mycroft. Then blue eyes went wide when Lestrade cheerfully said, “Oh, hey John!”

“I… Y… Wait…” John spluttered before shaking his head and backing out of the room, muttering something about the side effects of morphine and John Simm and a coma dream.

The two men looked at one another again. Lestrade didn’t have a clue what was going on, of course, but he knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Mycroft had come to a swift conclusion and was already thinking about how to handle his moody younger brother when the parlour door swung open again.

“Greg! Thank Merlin you’re here!”

The inspector turned to see a lovely young red head smiling at him, relief apparent on her face. “Finally, someone normal!” Her small, compact form was clad in a rather bright green halter dress. Her long hair was pulled back into a bun, but there had been so much of it that nearly two feet more hung down her back from the knot at the back of her head.

“I’m as normal as they come,” Lestrade replied, letting her give him a quick hug. “Could you?”

“Yes yes,” she said. “Kreacher!”

Mycroft glanced at her, and Lestrade brushed his elbow against his arm after recognizing the look of annoyance in his eyes. But that annoyance was soon gone at the brief touch. “Mummy still has that dreadful elf hanging about?”

“I know, right? At least it doesn’t keep breaking back into Grimmauld Place. That old thing just won’t pack it in.”

“I can arrange-“

Silver eyes narrowed on her oldest brother, giving him a hard look. “No. You’re not sending him to the jungle. Or where ever it is you dispose of the bodies these days. Mummy would have a fit.”

“Yes… Where is Harry?”

The young woman clearly hadn’t heard him, as she was huffing about the lazy house elf. “Kreacher! You get in here right this second!” she shouted.

“Maybe he finally-“

Lestrade was cut off as the familiar _pop_ of the house elf arriving filled the air.

“Yes Mistress Lily, what will you have Kreacher-“

“Take Greg and Mycroft’s things to their usual room please.”

The house elf gave her a sneer before lugging himself over to their trunks and popping back out of the room with them. “I swear… that elf is such a pain in my a-“

“Language, Lily.”

The three turned to see a rather tired, bespectacled gentleman. His glasses had slid down his nose some, and his gray and black hair was a little disheveled from the constant running of fingers through it. Long red sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his shirt was tucked into his gray slacks. But green eyes were bright despite the energy lost when arguing with his most stubborn and childish son.

“Sorry, Mummy,” the red head said, lowering her eyes away. “Sev isn’t still upset, is he?”

“Very much. He’s locked himself in his room. Again. I don’t see why he has to be so difficult.”

“He does that,” Lestrade said. “A lot.”

Mycroft glowered, straightened his tie, and stood up as straight as he could. “If he doesn’t open that door, I will tear it down.”

“ _Scorpius_!” the elder man snapped. “You will not break into your brother’s room! Not after what happened the last time.”

Lily snickered, trying to hide her mouth behind her hand as Mycroft strode out of the room, determined to talk some sense into his little brother. “What… happened the last time?”

“Sev turned him into a cake!”

“Oh god!” Greg Lestrade’s eyes went wide as he pictured the cake addicted Mycroft as a three layer death by chocolate cake. Because any other kind of cake just wouldn’t be very Crofty.

“Yes. It was… problematic.” He chuckled as he seated himself in a highbacked green and black chair, motioning for his guest and daughter to join him.

“Sorry, Harry,” Lestrade said. “From the look of John, I think I’d best go find him. Make sure he’s alright.”

Harry nodded, then glanced to his daughter. “Tea?”

“I’m not your maid,” she huffed. “We have house elves.”

“Not for me,” he replied kindly. “John. From what Mycroft has told us, he responds well to change when he has a cup of tea. It wouldn’t hurt to take your brothers some too.”

“…Fine…” she muttered, causing Lestrade to chuckle as he followed her to the kitchens.

**o0o**

Harry and Lily had offered to cast a locating spell to find John on the grounds, but Lestrade had declined. He knew John well enough to know how his mind worked. He’d find somewhere secluded, but where he could also see the manor. Somewhere close in case Sherlock needed him, but far enough away that he could talk to himself without risking someone hearing him.

So the choices were slim in where Lestrade had to look. He found John on a bench near a small pond on the grounds. From where Lestrade was standing, he knew John had situated himself in such a way to see Sherlock’s window.

“He’s right,” Greg said, alerting John to his presence. “You’re so predictable.”

“I don’t suppose you can destroy things with your mind too mate?”

“Nah. Not my division,” he said, stepping away from the path and offering the cup in his hand to John. “Lily made it for you. Harry thought you might need it.”

“This is… This is just too much.” But John took the cup, like he knew he would. Taking a sip, he moved just a little further along the stone bench, and Lestrade sat down next to him, noticing that the window was even more exposed to John’s side of the bench than his own.

“So, mind telling me what’s on your mind?”

“Rather not think about it.”

Lestrade nodded. “So… I’ll talk then,” he said, thinking back to two years prior when he had found himself in a similar predicament with Mycroft. He had known getting involved with a Holmes would be difficult, and possibly even dangerous. But he hadn’t imagined… “So, Sherlock’s a wizard. He’s still an arrogant git.”

“You didn’t see what happened at the flat.”

“I saw the footage.”

John moaned in despair. “Oh god, there’s _video_!”

He rolled his eyes. “You know there is. Mycroft has that flat wired up so tight I’m surprised you two aren’t tripping over cameras.”

John frowned. “There aren’t any in the bathroom, are there?”

“Of course not! We’re not perverts.”

“Debatable.”

The shared an uneasy laugh, and Lestrade noticed John was starting to loosen up. Just a little, so he continued the conversation. “I saw it on the video. You’d be proud. He defended your chair for a good three, three and a half hours before Draco deflected one of Sherlock’s spells. Must have been a _reducto_ from the look of it.”

The doctor’s shoulders slumped as he leaned forward some, holding the cup of tea with both hands. “How can you just sit so easily and say things like that? It’s mad. It’s absolutely mad.”

“Yeah, it is. And it does take some getting used to mate. But trust me, it could be a whole lot worse. He could have just as easily been a Weasley.” The thought of Mycroft being a Weasley sent shivers down his spine. It was a thought that didn’t bear thinking about, so he pushed it far back in his mind and thanked whatever was at work that those terrible books that had been written were not entirely true.

“This goes against everything I ever thought was real. The man’s a genius. He’s all test tubes and brick dust and science! How in the hell could he be a wizard!”

He shrugged. He’d thought similar lines when he’d first met the Potter-Malfoy sister, quite by accident. Mycroft had neglected to tell him people would be popping out of the fireplace of his bedroom unannounced at all hours of the morning. “Stop and think about it for a second John-“

“All this time… And you know what, he may not have even solved any of those cases himself. He probably just used-“

He didn’t finish his sentence because Lestrade had turned and slapped him so hard in the face the doctor tumbled off the bench and lost hold of his tea. “Stop that. John Watson, listen to yourself! Of all the people in the world, **you** are the last person I’d expect to hear doubting Sherlock Holmes!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

John glared up at him from the ground, rubbing at his face. But Lestrade had had enough. “You have no bloody idea how stupid you sound right now! Yeah, he’s a bloody wizard! Yeah, he could have done some weird magic stuff to solve all his cases! But he didn’t! He couldn’t, and even if he could he wouldn’t!”

“I-“

“No, you be quiet and you listen to me,” he snapped as John pulled himself back up on the bench. “I spent three years listening to you trying to convince the world that man!” He pointed up to Sherlock’s bedroom window. “Isn’t a fake! And now after learning one little dark secret you’re ready to turn on him like the rest of them! You, John, should feel _**ashamed**_! You could at least try to wrap that brain of yours around all this. He hates being here, he hates having anything to do with these kind of people, and you’re sitting out here sulking like a child making sure he doesn’t snap and blow someone up!”

After a few moments of silence from both men, Lestrade noticed the cup of tea, though on its side, was still full. “Well, would you look at that… enchanted teacups. Wonder if Mycroft can get me some of those.”

* * *

“I remember that set of china. They were father’s favorite.”

“Uncle Crofty!” Hudson exclaimed, and before Greg could stop him he’d jumped out of bed and threw his arms around his other uncle’s legs. Then he looked up at him. “Uncle Greggy’s telling us a story about daddy and father!”

“Oh is he now? I thought he was telling you a story about how he tried to talk some sense into your daddy because he was being a prat.”

Harried snickered. “He called daddy a prat.”

“Oy! Don’t you start now, little lady,” Greg said, getting up to retrieve his nephew and put him back to bed. “Language like that and you won’t get to hear what happened to your father while I was with your daddy.”

Their ashen eyes grew wide as saucers as they looked from Uncle Greg to Uncle Mycroft.

“No.”

“Come on, Crofty… I need to go get something to eat, and they can’t sleep without a story.”

He looked at the children with narrowed eyes, contemplating whether or not to conceed to his partner’s request. “Hrm…”

“Please please please please!” the twins intoned like a mantra. “We’ll be real quiet! Promise!”

At last, he gave in when Greg gave him a pleading look. “Fine. They’re worse than the nymph.”

Harriet giggled. “That’s what daddy calls father,” Hudson said loudly.

“I’m sure he does,” Mycroft said, throwing a glare at Greg before sitting down in a chair. “I assume Greg was sharing the story of your parents’ first visit to the Manor.”

They nodded in unison.

“Good. Now, settle back and listen because I’m not going to repeat myself. And I will not tollerate interruptions.”

Again, they nodded and settled back in their beds, waiting as patiently as two 5 year olds could.

Mycroft drew in a breath, then began to tell his part of the story. “After learning from your grandmother that Sherlock had locked himself in his bedroom, I decided to handle things myself…”

* * *

Mycroft left his family in the parlour, deciding it would be best to take care of Sherlock’s behavior now before it escalated. Having heard the end of his younger brother’s tantrum he could be pretty sure what it had been about. One of the few subjects Sherlock refused to acknowledge… Moreso now that he lived with John.

When he came to the door of his brother’s room, he didn’t bother with the handle. The last time he’d done that… it had been a disaster. He’d been a carrot cake for a week. Not that he could complain much, he did, in fact adore cake. But he couldn’t stand to be near carrot cake again for many years.

So, he opted for talking through the door. “Sherlock,” he said, thinking it best to address him by his prefered name rather than the one he’d been born with. “Sherlock, you’ve upset mummy.”

“You upset mummy!”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I could not have upset mummy because I only just arrived while you were shouting with him and Lily in front of John.”

“Apparently I don’t have to make sense. Apparently, I’m still a child!”

“Open the door, Sherlock.” Mycroft received no response. “Open the door, or I will open it for you.”

After a few moments, Mycroft heard the satisfying sound of locks disengaging. The door opened into a dark purple room. Books and papers scattered across the floor, piled on chairs, and a sofa covered in clothes and parchment.

It was the very same as the day Sherlock had left home after the Ministry Incident that had him running for the muggle world. Well, nearly the same. The bed was made, which Mycroft assumed was John’s doing. And there were a suitcase in front of the wardrobe and a military bag stuffed under one side of the large, four poster bed.

“There. The door is open. Now kindly leave.”

Sherlock was standing at the window, looking out over the gardens where he’d gone out to collect soil samples and conduct muggle science experiments as a child. He watched as John walked down the path to the pond, then stepped off it to look around.

Mycroft watched his brother, reading him as easily as Sherlock could read everyone else. It wasn’t hard to do… No. To say that would be to lie. He could read Sherlock almost as easily. It had become increasingly difficult to do in the last four years.

“When you told them about John, you did not provide the correct data.”

“I provided the correct data. Just simply not all of it,” Mycroft replied, stepping further into the room. Sherlock was obviously tense. He looked uncomfortable in his white shirt. He was impatient, temperamental, and…

“I see…” Mycroft said at last.

Sherlock scoffed, finally turning away from the window when he caught sight of Lestrade joining John on the bench. “What exactly is it that you see, brother mine?”

Mycroft looked away, turning and leisurely moving to the dusty bookcase and examining some of the titles with little interest. “You’re acting like John.”

“In what way-“

“Honestly Sherlock. Are we going to play this game? You know exactly what I mean. I suppose now you know how it feels for poor John when people see the two of you running around together.”

“This. Is. Nothing. Like. That,” Sherlock snapped through gritted teeth.

Mycroft laughed. “It’s exactly like that. Although, rather than throw a tantrum you could use this turn of events to your advantage.”

“I just want to get this holiday over with. This entire place repulses me. It’s too quiet. It’s too… normal. I need cases, puzzles, riddles, anything. Sitting in the country in a house full of echoes is not my idea of a pleasant few weeks.”

“You’re not listening to me, Sherlock.”

“I am. I am also merely trying to change the subject.”

Mycroft put his hands behind his back, wrapping his fingers around the opposing wrist. He sighed and shook his head. “Listen to me. You left because father was attempting to pair you off with some wealthy tart.”

“And the muggles were far more interesting and challenging to understand.”

“Quite.”

Sherlock tilted his head just a little and raised a brow, then stood in a similar pose to his older brother. “You’re proposing that I actually lead everyone to believe John and I are-“

“They already believe you are. All you must do is maintain the fiction long enough for father to get this silly marriage idea out of his head. You are not a pawn for political gain.”

Sherlock gave him a small, very small smile. “Coming from a former Slytherin, that is tantamount to blasphemy. Brother mine, I had no idea you cared.”

“Quite,” Mycroft replied as Sherlock turned back to the window. “Besides, you cannot help it if how the world seems to perceive you should, in fact, be absolutely true.”

Sherlock nearly growled at him in reply. “Careful, brother. There is a line, and you are about to cross it.” Then, he did actually growl as he watched DI Lestrade slap John Watson in the garden. “Mycroft… if you value your lover’s life, you may want to go outside now.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid John may just hit him before I get the chance to turn him into a naked mole rat.”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head and turned to go. The last thing he heard from Sherlock was a transfiguration charm being thrown out the bedroom window.

* * *

“By the time I reached the garden John had picked him up and was about to throw him into the pond. Needless to say your Uncle Greggy was very upset about being turned into a naked mole rat.”

The twins snickered sleepily as he finished up the story. He was not one for overly sentimental gestures, so he patted each child on the head gently before turning out the lamp and leaving the room.

He met Greg in the hall, the muggle wearing a large smile. “You’re good with kids,” he said. “They really like you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Because we spoil them rotten and then hand them back to their parents to deal with.”

Greg shrugged, offering him a bite of his ice cream, but Mycroft declined. So, he offered again, adding, “It’s birthday cake flavor.”

Mycroft gave him an exasperated sigh. “You’re trying to ruin my diet.”

“Yeah… but it’s not that bad,” Greg chuckled. “C’mon, you’ve still got a load of paperwork to finish and I’ve got a stack of cold cases two feet high to sort out.”

“Ooo…” Mycroft said, stealing another bite of ice cream before taking the bowl away completely. “I love it when you talk bureaucrat.”

**o0o**

The twins were taken home the following day, and discovered John and Sherlock a little worse for wear. Greg offered to take them for another night, but John wouldn’t have it. After reassuring his children that he and Sherlock were, in fact, not going to die from the giant boo-boos he fixed them lunch while Sherlock, being Sherlock, complained about how bored he was now that the case was closed.

John had tossed him a bottle of water and a couple paracetemol then quickly shut the bedroom door before the man could start shouting at him. The twins, quite used to this post-case behavior, merely shrugged, ate their lunch, and scribbled in crayon on pastel colored sheets of paper.

When asked what they’d done at their uncles’ home during the few days their daddies were working, Harriet and Hudson excitedly told him of the games they had played.

Their favorite had been _Anderson, you’re putting me off!_ When asked, Hudson told John all about how Uncle Greggy had pretended he was a victim by smearing raspberry jam on his shirt and flopping on the floor while they pretended to be detectives.

“So where does the Anderson thing come in again?” John asked, quite amused.

“Well,” Harriet began. “Sometimes we take turns being Anderson-“

“Don’t let your father hear you say that.”

Hudson nodded. “And sometimes we pick a stuffed animal. And that’s Anderson. And then one of us pretends to be father and turn up our coat all cool.” He mimed Sherlock’s patented collar flip. “And then we shout out _Anderson! You’re an idiot!_ ”

“Oh oh! Then sometimes I like to say _Anderson you’re putting me off!_ ” Harriet exclaimed happily. The children went into a giggle fit.

An angry growl could be heard from their parents’ bedroom. Sherlock, of course, shouted “What the hell is Anderson doing here!”

This caused the twins to giggle harder and John to sigh before shouting back, “He’s not here! Shut up and go back to sleep!”

The remainder of lunch passed in relative quiet. With Harriet or Hudson telling John about their visit with their uncles. And John nodding and listening attentively. As he was clearing away their dishes, two little voices piped up behind him. “Daddy,” they said. “We want another story.”

“It’s not bed time yet loves.”

As one they grinned. Then, when John turned back to them he saw the most adorable pair of matching pouty faces he’d ever seen. Of course, he was biased… They were his own children after all. “We know,” Harriet said, then Hudson continued. “But we wanna make sure we get one later.”

“Yeah. Because if we don’t ask now.”

“We won’t get one.”

John gave in, because that’s what John does. He nodded. “Alright. Another story tonight. But one of these days, I’m going to read you a real book again.”

With that settled, Harry and Hudson fled the table and went back to their coloring.

**o0o**

That night, before they were ever put to bed, Hudson and Harriet decided to attack. After brushing their teeth and putting on their pjs, they pounced John and Sherlock on the sofa, each taking a parent and refusing to release him until they gave in to the children’s demands.

Hudson. “Story!”

“It’s not time for bed yet,” John said.

“Story!” Harriet.

“Where did your uncles leave off?” Sherlock asked, managing to ease his sore arm out of Harriet’s grasp. She immediately latched onto his side, causing him to wince just a little.

John puffed out his cheeks just a bit. “Sherlock, now, really?”

“But daddy!” Thing One said.

“You promised!” chimed in Thing Two.

Sherlock let his arm rest around his daughter, who snuggled up close with a big Holmes grin. “Look at these faces.”

“I’ve been looking at them all day while you’ve been laying up in bed moaning about your back,” John huffed, trying to pry Hudson’s vice-like fingers off his arm. When he managed to do that, the boy attatched himself to John’s side, clinging for dear life.

“If you don’t tell us a story, I’ll deduce you!” Hudson cried, a slight tremmor in his voice as if he was about to begin a tantrum.

Harriet nodded aginst her father. “He’ll do it! He’ll deduce you!”

“I’m sure he will,” Sherlock chuckled. “Come John, what difference does it make? They can pay just as much attention on the sofa as they can in their beds.”

“That’s not the point. We have a routine-“

“John…”

Once again John admitted defeat. But certainly later he’d make Sherlock pay for taking sides with their twins. “Alright… Where-“

“Uncle Greggy said he slapped you silly in the garden, and then father turned him into a nekkie rat,” Harriet said.

Sherlock looked down at her and pulled a face. One he often expressed when correcting what should have been an obvious error. “No. I turned him into a naked mole rat. There is no such thing as a _nekkie rat_.”

She nodded.

“Alright then… I suppose we should start there then. Well, after your Uncle Greg turned into a naked mole rat, I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to do. One moment he’s standing there shouting at me, and then the next… he’s this… thing!”

“I bet Uncle Crofty was really mad.”

John stroked the boy’s hair. “Oh, he was. He was very mad. Especially because I almost dropped Uncle Greg into the pond.”

Sherlock made a throaty chuckle, trying his best to keep it to himself and barely managing to mask it as a slight cough. “Well, yes. He did seem quite distraught. Especially when he discovered he couldn’t change him back.”

“It upset your mother as well. He really likes Greg.”

“Everyone likes Greg.”

Hudson poked John in the ribs. “Get back to the story,” he whined.

And so, that’s what his daddy did. “Well, Mycroft managed to rescue Greg the naked mole rat from being dropped in the pond. I picked up my teacup and examined it closely before giving up on it and following them inside. We were met by your auntie Lily…”

* * *

Green eyes were wide in surprise when she saw what had happened to Lestrade. “Oh dear…” she said. “Mycroft, you-“

“ _I_ didn’t do this. It was **Severus**.” His words were clipped, and his little sister backed up. “When I get my hands on that tempermental, spoiled little nymph-“

“Hey!” John snapped. “He had it coming!”

“Why? For trying to talk some sense into your small, predictable muggle-“

_**“ENOUGH!”** _

Three adults froze where they stood in the hall as the voice echoed off the walls. Lily instinctively grabbed John’s hand while Mycroft cradled the frightened naked mole rat in his arms protectively. The footsteps on the marble floor were quick, but measured. Lily tried to give John a reassuring look when Harry came striding into view. “Scorpius, the study.” His voice was even but held behind it the same sense of wild anger that occasionally hid behind Sherlock’s otherwise cold tone. “Lily, please take our guest out for a while. I believe you still have a bit of shopping to do before Christmas.”

“Yes mummy,” she said, eyes lowered as she hurried away, pulling John behind her. John wanted to protest, but Lily hushed him and just kept walking. Quickly leaving the hall.

The last thing John heard before she pulled him into the parlour was Harry shouting at Mycroft about manners, guests, and something John didn’t quite understand but was sure it didn’t sound all that good.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
>  We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

After giving John a cloak and putting a small pouch of gold in his hands, Lily quickly took John back outside to beneath an ash tree. She’d explained hastily that it was the only point on the property where one could _apparate_ after giving a special password. She took John side-a-long with her to Diagon Alley.

He was instructed to keep his hood up, his cloak on, and not to wander off. It was a dangerous place for muggles on their own.

In the course of their day John had started to loosen up. He marveled at things she saw as common place. Periodically his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he would check it, quite surprised that he could even get a signal in this bizzare world. Of course the texts were from Sherlock. Who else would bother? Some were from Mycroft, asking if he was having a good time with Lily. One was even from Lestrade. John knew he’d been forced, since it was a generic sounding apology.

Lily had been very patient with him as well. They found they had common ground, somewhat, when she told him she was a medi-witch, or healer, on retainer for the Holly Harpies quiddich team. She would tell him wizard ailments and cures, and he would share with her the muggle equivalents. Anything he asked her about the wizarding world, no matter how annoying, she would answer. And he the same for her questions about muggles. Such as what, exactly, was an iPod?

After hours of window and actual shopping John’s stomach growled in protest. She had laughed. A light, airy sound that was filled with mirth. It was a laugh that reached even her eyes, and it was infectious.

“I know just the place,” she said and took him by the wrist, dragging him into a small shop. It was cramped but also cozy. He’d learned on this outing that many of the shops in the wizard world, or at least in Diagon Alley were like that. Little cafe tables and chairs were scattered about and a counter sat in the back. It was to the counter that she led John.

“This guy,” she said excitedly. “He makes the absolute **best** authentic Italian food I’ve ever had. Even when I don’t know what I want-“

“I always know what she wants!” exclaimed a cheerful, loud, and oddly familiar voice.

John couldn’t help himself and threw back the hood of hsi cloak. “Angelo?”

“Ah! John, my friend! So good to see you here!” the former theif boomed happily. “Where’s Sherlock today?”

“At home. I mean, here home? Not at the flat. I mean, not at Baker Street,” he stammered, overcoming his initial surprise. “You’re a wizard, too?”

“Ah, sadly no,” Angelo said. “That would be Billy. But we do good business here.” He turned to Lily with that same kind expression he always used on John and Sherlock. “Anything you like, little miss. For you today, here with my good friend, free of charge.”

Lily had stood staring in wide-eyed amazement at the exchange. “You… you know each other?”

“Of course! John and Sherlock come to my restaurant on their first date.”

“Case,” John quickly corrected him. “First case.”

“Right. Case.” Angelo winked at him as if he were in on some joke John had no clue existed, then continued. “The usual for you, doctor?”

John nodded. Lily, of course, had no idea what to ask for and just said to surprise her. They shared an awkward silence that was broken only when Angelo returned to the counter with their meals and two cups of some sort of sweet, pumpkiny drink.

They found a table and sat, eating their meals and watching as people came and went. Occasionally someone would stop to speak with Lily. John didn’t realize he’d automatically started deducing them until Lily had cleared her throat to get his attention.

“You’ve got that look,” she said.

He shrugged and stabbed at what was left of his chicken parmesian. “It’s my face.”

She smiled, giving him that same feeling that she was in on some cosmic joke that again, John had somehow missed the punchline. “No. You got that look, like Sev gets when he’s watching people.”

John couldn’t help but smile as he took a sip of his pumpkin juice. “He calls it _observing_.”

“Doesn’t matter what he calls it. It’s the same look he gets. Not on your face, not entirely. But it’s in your eyes…” She reached over with a napkin and wiped at the corner of his mouth. “And right there.”

He stared at her a moment, leaning to press his back against the back of his chair and gave her a hard look. “Did you just-… Look,” he said.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, cheeks flushing bright red that rivaled her hair. “Oh, no. No. Definately not!” She looked away. “It’s just-“

“No. It’s fine. As long as we’re clear on this. Just… You’re my best mate’s sister, little sister in fact, and I want to make sure-“

She nodded, glancing back at him from the corner of her green eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think… I’d never.”

“Good.”

“Yes,” she agreed, then added. “Besides, if I even dared Sev would probably skin me alive,” she added in all seriousness, not noting John’s confusion at her sudden change in tone.

“He’s your brother, I don’t think-“

“I’m surprised you don’t get it yet,” she said, pushing he plate away. It still had a few pieces of spinnach, laying in a small puddle of alfredo sauce. “Severus hates sharing. If he had his way the entire world would just blow up and leave you, him, and his nest as the only things left standing.”

“I know he can be inconsiderate and dramatic but he’s actually not that bad.”

She smiled weakly and decided it best to change the subject. After all, if her elder brother knew she’d even mentioned it, she ran the risk of ending up like that dreadful Mary Morsten… She shuddered at the thought.

John noticed this and frowned at her. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Lily nodded. “Come on, we’ve still got some shopping to do. Neither of us have gotten anything for Sev yet, and you know him a lot better than I do.”

She stood, leaving her plate on the table. John took a few more bites of his chicken before following her out the door. Angelo called a fond farewell after them as John pulled his hood back up. He wondered if he should ask to be taken back to what he deemed more familiar shopping districts as Lily led him through the twisting passages of Diagon Alley when something caught his attention in the window of a book shop. He took hold of her cloak and gave a slight tug.

She stopped to look at him questioningly.

“Stationary might be a good idea,” he said, trying to sound helpful. “He writes out case notes by hand before typing them up. It’s terrible business trying to decipher his handwriting, but he says its easier to organize them without the risk of losing the data when the computers crash.”

She frowned, not quite understanding everything he said. After a moment, she gave a small chuckle of amusement. “Muggles and their odd contraptions,” she said before giving a nod. “It makes sense though. When we attended Hogwarts together he was a Ravenclaw.”

John smirked, remembering what he could of the Ravenclaws from the book series and the films. This small revelation of Sherlock’s childhood made so much more sense than he thought it would. Offering his arm, she took it and together they went into the bookshop. “So which house were you?” he asked.

“I was in Gryffindor,” she said, then added. “I played quiddich all seven years, too. Seeker, just like my parents.”

“And Mycroft?”

“Slytherin of course. Just like father. Thankfully he’d already completed schooling by the time Sev started. He’s older by seven years. I don’t think I could have handled having both my brothers there. It would have been absolutely dreadful trying to keep up with both academically.”

The awkwardness of their shared meal now well behind them, John and Lily spent the remainder of the day searching for gifts and killing time in the hopes that when they returned to the manor things would have settled down again.

**o0o**

While John and Lily had gone off for the day, Sherlock was brooding. Having been forced to leave the comfort and familiarity of his bedroom, which his parents had also placed John in due to Mycroft not completely informing them of their living arrangements, he now sat in the study. Still brooding. But brooding behind a book on bees.

Mycroft had come in shortly before, the naked mole rat that was Lestrade still cradled in his arms as if he were afraid to set him down. Afraid someone else would do his muggle partner harm.

One look at his older brother and Sherlock was sure he’d already faced the angry lion that was their mother. It was clear from the way he kept stroking the poor creature’s back. Trying to soothe himself rather than Lestrade. Sherlock also noted the slight strain in his brother’s eyes, as if he were recovering from having a good screaming match. Though it was clear Mycroft had not done any of the screaming.

“I assume we are meant to be discussing our problems like adults,” Sherlock said after a long while. “Otherwise mummy would be in here shouting at me as well.”

“Shouting at you has never done anyone any good, Severus.”

Ash colored eyes peered out from behind his book to one of the three entrances to the study. Harry had just come into the room, hands in his pockets and his elbows slightly bent away from his body. Emerald eyes swept over both men before settling on Lestrade wiggling in Mycroft’s arms. His glasses slid down just a little, and he sighed. “Was that really necessary, Severus?”

“Sherlock,” the man in question snapped.

“I think I know my own son’s name,” Harry said, annoyance lacing his voice as he stepped further into the study.

“Then you would know that I no longer use that moniker. Haven’t for many, many years now.”

Harry waved a hand to silence him when it was obvious Sherlock was going to continue. “I don’t care if you call yourself Lady Gaga.” He paused and looked at Mycroft. “Wipe that astonished look off your face. Of course I know who she is. She’s more famous than we are. Plus, your sister for some reason has her magazine subscriptions sent here.” Looking back to Sherlock, Harry frowned, a tuft of raven streaked gray falling into his eyes. “First we are going to discuss what led to Greg’s condition. Then you’re going to explain to me, as a grown man, the reason for your tantrum. And then you and your brother are going to explain to me why, for the love of Godric, you decided it would be a good idea not to tell us you were still alive. Am I clear?”

Both men nodded, knowing better than to upset the savior of the wizarding world any further than they had already.

With a small hand gesture, Sherlock’s voice returned to him and he shot his brother a rueful look as their mother sat down in an uncomfortable looking mahogony chair. “From the beginning, if you please, _Sherlock_ ,” he said, the name falling uncomfortably from his lips.

So Sherlock recounted, partially, his conversation with Mycroft earlier, as well as his observations from his window of John and Lestrade in the garden. He told them which transfiguration charm he had used, and it was quickly undone.

Lestrade, feeling quite disoriented and surprised, just sat beside Mycroft looking bewildered and confused. A good, strong drink was brought to him by a house elf before Harry was able to hear why, exactly, Lestrade had struck John in the garden. All the while through the DI’s explanation, Harry’s gaze shifted to his younger son who sat with his face frozen in a mask of passivity. Though he appeared to be completely unresponsive to Lestrade’s recounting of John’s statements, Harry could tell his son was troubled. It was the way his eyes dimmed, just a little, upon hearing John’s doubt in him.

When Lestrade had finished, he had been excused. The DI was thankful to be allowed to leave, wanting a shower and to freshen up after his terrifying experience as a naked mole rat.

Once he was sure the muggle had gone, Harry turned his attention back to his sons. “Now then, this tantrum of yours Severus. Could you not have solved the problem yourself by transfiguring the sofa? Or another piece of furniture?”

“You know very well I can’t.”

Harry raised a brow. “I was under the impression you had finally learned to control-“

“It turned into a fish,” Sherlock snapped, leaning back in his chair. He would have pouted, had he not thought Mycroft would enjoy seeing him do so. So instead, he trained his angry ashen eyes on something behind Harry’s head.

Harry shook his head, brushing that stray tuft of hair from his face. He sighed and leaned some, resting his head in his hand and his elbow on the arm of his chair. “Why is this so important to you, Severus?”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at Mycroft before blinking slowly. An unspoken agreement between them from their conversation earlier. At last, Sherlock sighed. “It is difficult. John was a soldier during muggle wartime. He has nightmares. Often they cause him to thrash about in his sleep. After waking with a foot shape bruise on my spine, we thought it best to alter our regular sleeping arrangements.”

He had chosen his words carefully. It was a well known fact among the family and close friends of his parents that Harry Potter still suffered from nightmares. Always had, and always would. And sometimes, depending on the intensity of them, they could cause great distress for everyone around him. Not to mention damage to which ever home he happened to be in at the time.

Thus, it was never a good idea to upset mummy… because when they upset mummy, mummy’s magic could literally destroy a castle. Quite by accident, but it was enough to scare the willies out of even the darkest of wizards in Azkaban.

So using the piece of information about John’s nightmares, as well as the fact he had been a soldier in a war, Sherlock knew he would be able to prey on Harry’s sympathies. The fact that the foot shaped bruise had actually come from the time he and John had fallen asleep while hiding in a broom cubbard during a case need not be brought up.

Sherlock was pleased that his explanation had the desired effect. Harry gave him a soft smile and a curt nod. “We’ll have a second bed placed in your room before the day’s through.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mycroft said, surpressing a smirk.

Harry cut his eyes to his eldest child, and the man who secretly single handedly ran the British government went very quiet and very still. “I haven’t forgotten you, Scorpius. You knew your brother was alive-“

“Only since the Mary Morsten incident-“

“Speaking of which no one must mention that around John,” Sherlock cut in. “It’s… not wise.”

“So noted,” Harry said, but wasn’t through with Mycroft just yet. “Six months is still a long time not to tell us. You have no idea what your father and I have gone through. And your sister… You know how fragile she is, especially since your ridiculous brother decided it would be a good idea to fake his death.”

“It was necessary,” Sherlock cut in again.

“Interrupt one more time and John is going to find he’s come home to a mewling kitten, understand.”

With that, Sherlock shut up and waited his turn. As he waited, he slipped his hand into his pocket. Long fingers searched for his phone, and when found he quickly typed out a message to John without having to look at the keys…

* * *

John stroked Hudson’s hair gently with a yawn. “So, is that a good place to stop for the night?”

“But why didn’t you tell-“

“Because that’s part of the mean Mr. Moriarty story,” Harriet interrupted her brother sleepily. “And we can’t hear that one yet.”

Sherlock nodded at his daughter’s correct assessment and gently squeezed her arm. “I think it’s time for two little elves to get to bed.”

“We’re not elves. We’re Holmeses,” Hudson said. “And I’m not tired yet.” He said this through a yawn.

“Daddy?” Harriet asked, curiosity threading her voice as well as tiredness. “When this story happened, did you and father not like each other? Because you had different beds and now you have-“

Sherlock chuckled, and answered for his husband. “It’s more complex than that, Harriet.”

“That’s what you always say,” she pouted.

“Let’s just say that your daddy cared very much for me back then, but he didn’t know yet how important he really was to me.”

Hudson snickered. “Silly muggle,” he said before John got up from the couch, pulling his son up with him. “Come on you,” John said. “Off to bed. It’s late and we have to get up early agian to visit Mrs. Hudson.”

“But daddy,” the boy protested as he was set on his feet on the floor. Harriet had already gotten up, pulling Sherlock by the arm from the sofa and rubbing her eyes.

By the time the twins were put to bed, John and Sherlock found themselves on the sofa again, watching the television with the sound low. But they just couldn’t keep their eyes open and they, too, drifted off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

John woke to the sounds of whining children and a groaning, though muffled, Sherlock. His neck and shoulder were stiff from his awkward sleeping position on the sofa. Groggily he recalled why he had been sleeping there. Right… They’d put the twins to bed, and sat down to watch the telly and…

Fell quickly asleep.

Once that was sorted in his head, he could then move on to why the twins were whining.

“C’mon! I really have to wee!” the little girl cried out from in front of the bathroom door as the sound of keys rattling could be heard nearby.

“Spare key!” Hudson cried, causing his sister to yelp.

John pushed himself up from the couch and stretched with a tired grunt, but he wasn’t in time to stop the two desperate children from running out the door and down the 17 steps to their landlady’s flat below.

“What the… Hudson? Harry?”

He received no response of course. Only the dramatic moaning of Sherlock from the other side of the bathroom door. Worried for his husband’s general health, John shuffled over sleepily and knocked.

“Go away!” Sherlock half shouted, half groaned.

“Sher,” John said loudly so he could be heard. “Are you alright?”

“Obviously!” the other snapped and when John cracked the door he clearly heard Sherlock dry heaving. Alarmed, he threw the door open all the way, causing it to bounce off the wall and nearly close back in on him.

Sherlock sat on the floor, red faced with his arms wrapped around the toilet. “I’m not _alright_.”

The doctor in John kicked in and he immediately began to assess the situation.

Food poisoning? _No._ Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything the previous day. What did he drink?… Coffee. Tea. Three glasses of milk and a bottle of water. _But John had also had milk. He felt fine. The milk couldn’t have been off yet._

A stommach flu? Perhaps. Chances were high considering the case they’d just finished had them working closely with the homeless network. They weren’t exactly the most hygenic or healthy people. Or a weird wizard bug. Oh… he’d have to call Lily if that were the case. Those, he’d found from past experience, were far too strange for him to handle. Especially the time Harriet had turned neon blue for no real reason at all.

Either way…

“Right. You’re going straight to bed. I’m looking you over properly, then you’re on plenty of fluids.”

“John, just-” Sherlock was cut off by another bout of dry heaving into the toilet, accompanied by a tortured moan. “Give me a wet rag. I’ll be fine by noon.”

John did as requested and sat to it Sherlock made it to bed.

The twins were dissapointed that they didn’t get to visit Mrs. Hudson in the hospital that day. They also didn’t get the next part of their story, which really upset them. Not that they didn’t care about their father’s health. After all, having a doctor for their daddy meant they knew how important such a thing was even at their young age.

But they were really upset because they didn’t see why John and Sherlock couldn’t tell them more of their story. After all, Sherlock had felt much better by noon, and was feeling absolutely fantastic by the time they went to bed that night.

Sherlock, for his part, had been forced to stay in bed all day with nothing more than boring books and the internet to keep him company while John kept coming at him with water, tea, soup, and crackers.

**o0o**

Two weeks went by. Every morning was a repeat of the previous. Sherlock had placed himself in the bathroom, threw up, and was irritating for the remainder of the day. When the second week straight of it had started, John suspected that the man was not afflicted with a simple, yet strange, varriation of a stomach flu, and had spent the entire following week trying to convince him to see one of those medi-wizards who were more equipped than a mere muggle worried about his husband.

And now Sherlock stared at the stack of parchments across the room intently. He was not pleased.

Actually, he was pleased with the news he had just received. What he was not pleased about was that John was staring at him with his _**I will not let you do anything dangerous, stupid, or insane for the next eight months**_ face. It was almost as annoying as Anderson’s dinosaur fetish and Donnovan’s uncreative insults.

“I suppose we will need a bigger flat now,” John said.

Sherlock turned his attention back to him, eyes narrowed as if the man had just blasphemed. “We are not leaving Baker Street.”

“It’s going to be cramped. There simply isn’t enough room anymore.”

“I said, we are **not** leaving Baker Street. If I have to build a wall halfway across the kitchen to make another room myself-“

“Now you’re just being irritating.”

“I am not!”

John mentally sighed, reparing himself for eight months of Sherlockian mood swings that could make the average pregnant woman seem mild by comparrison. Strange food cravings described as “chocolate frogs dipped in curry on a bed of strawberries while enchanted pickles giggle at the ice cream”. And then there were the twins…

**o0o**

That night John didn’t have to nag Sherlock into eating. Nor did he have to nag him to go to bed.

Which left him with the task of putting the twins to bed.

“Daddy?” Hudson.

“Yes?” he said, rubbing his tired eyes and looking up the bed to his son.

“Is father going to be okay?”

He glanced to Harriet, then back at Hudson with a small smile. “Of course he is,” he said. They’d agreed not to share the news just yet considering they were five, and things could be touch and go for the next few months. “He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes. When is he ever not okay?”

That got them to smile, as he knew it would. “Now then, I believe I owe you a story.”

They nodded together, snuggling up under their duvets with their stuffed animals. “Well… where we leave off last, hm?”

“Well, father was getting a stern talking to from Gran,” Harriet said. “And so was Uncle Crofty.”

“And you were shopping with Auntie Lily,” Hudson supplied.

He nodded. Yep, that’s where they’d left off a few weeks ago. “Well,” he said, settling back against the footboard of his son’s bed so he could see both children at the same time. “The next few days after that were pretty boring. Your father was being a prat, as usual. But not as big of one. Your uncles stayed away from us for the most part. I think Greg didn’t want to get turned back into a naked mole rat.” The twins giggled at this. “But things didn’t really get weird until the day of the annual Ministry Yule Ball Celebrations. See, your Grandpa Draco and your Uncle Mycroft work for the Ministry of Magic, and with our whole big family being who they are, well you know we couldn’t not attend…”

* * *

“Draco, your hair looks fine!”

“Greg, your tie.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Mummy, are you sure this dress isn’t a bit much?”

“No, it’s lovely dear… Draco. Seriously, stop preening and get over here. We’re going to be late!”

Sherlock sighed, leaning against the large book case that stood opposite the fireplace in the parlour. His shoulder was pressed against the wood as he read a book. One hand held the ancient tome, the other turned the brittle pages. He’d read this book hundreds of times. This was only for distraction.

The only reason he’d even agreed to leave the manor for this tedius, festive occasion was Mycroft. The fool had gotten his name cleared, which meant he could, and was expected, to appear in public.

He could already envision the headlines in the morning’s _Daily Prophet_. And he dreaded it.

With a sigh, he glanced up from his book to scan the small group that made up his family. His father and brother in their traditional formal dress robes. Lily in her forest green tafetta ball gown, trimmed in white lace. The sleeves were large and puffed but tight at the wrists. Sherlock had forgotten the lack of modern fashion that plagued the wizarding world.

He was suddenly very grateful for his muggle attire. Not that different from what he wore on a regular basis. A little more dressed up considering the choice of fabric for his shirt beneath. And the shoes were less worn and just barely comfortable. When Mycroft had seen the state of him, he pointed out that he was underdressed. So Sherlock had combed his hair.

This didn’t help, but Lestrade managed to distract him by discussing some domestic matter. At last, Draco Malfoy stopped preening before the mirror and joined his family nearer the fireplace. “We’re missing John.”

“He’s still getting dressed,” Sherlock tossed out casually. It was a lie, of course. John had been dressed long before Sherlock… but the detective had asked him to wait upstairs in their room. “We will be along shortly.”

“Severus-“

“Father,” Sherlock interrupted, snapping the book in his hand closed. “This is John’s first Ministry function. As I am sure you experienced with Greg,” he said, still uncomfortable using the man’s first name. “I must explain to him the proper ways to present and conduct himself, as well as inform him of which members of the press to avoid.” He placed the book back on the shelf with the other old texts before excusing himself.

Mycroft tried to stop him, but Sherlock cast him a wicked glare before icily leaving the parlour. He needed to discuss a few things with John before they left. Namely to lay down a few ground rules. His paces were quick, but measured as he rapidly pieced together what he was going to say.

But when he reached their bedroom…

“John?” he called out, an edge of question in his voice. When he received no response, he grumbled.

“Kreacher!”

No response.

“Kreacher!” he tried again, and this time there was that familiar pop.

“What will Master Sev-“

Before he could finish, Sherlock interrupted. “Where is John? He was to be waiting in this room. He is not here.”

“The library, sir,” Kreacher said in disdain.

Sherlock waved him off, and the house elf was glad to be gone. Of all the Potter-Malfoys, Sherlock was the one Kreacher despised the most. Mainly because the man seemed to always be in a more sour mood than the house elf himself.

Impatiently Sherlock tore through the Manor, hurrying his way to the library. When at last he reached the large double doors he threw them open, John’s name on his lips… but found it wouldn’t fall from them when his breath caught in his throat.

He found the man standing at a bookshelf, contemplating the ancient wizard medical tomes lined up on it. He turned from the shelf, having heard the doors as they swung open. His suit, the one Sherlock had paid to have done for him. He hadn’t had a chance to see his flatmate in it yet, as he’d been preoccupied with getting himself presentable for the event. (Mainly trying to talk himself out of hexing his brother just to get out of it.)

John stood looking back at him looking rather smart. “It’s a bit uncomfortable,” John said, slipping a finger under his collar and giving it a bit of a tug. “And I’m pretty sure I should wear a tie.”

“You’re fine,” Sherlock said, admiring the cut of the suit. The color was muted, not drawing too much attention to the muggle yet also giving him a sense of refinement that Sherlock rarely saw but always knew had been burried in that short, jam addicted blogger of his.

John felt uncomfortable, having Sherlock standing there, raking penetrating gaze up and down. “Well?” he said at last, tugging on the charcoal and gray pinstriped sleeve of his suit jacket.

“A few things before we depart,” Sherlock said, forcing his thoughts back onto the matter at hand. “As you know, mummy is an important figure, therefore the family will be under scrutiny and we will be approached by the odd reporter.”

John nodded, leaving the bookshelves and closing the distance between them. “Nothing new there. We deal with reporters every day.”

Sherlock continued. “If we must speak to a reporter, we only speak to those representing _The Quibbler_. The owners are old family friends, and as such print only the truth and only what my parents deem appropriate. Regardless, _The Daily Prophet_ will have photographers and there is little we can do about those.”

Sherlock stepped aside in the doorway, motioning for John to step into the hall. Sherlock continued to outline the do’s and don’ts in regards to what was deemed appropriate. When they reached the parlour, John looked around. “Where is everyone?”

“I told them we would follow shortly,” Sherlock replied, reaching into his pocket. When he found what he was looking for, he pulled his hand back out. “Give me your wrist.”

“What?”

“Your wrist. Give.” He held out his other hand. John eyed him suspiciously, but held it up for Sherlock to see. After all, whatever the man had planned to do to him now, it couldn’t be as bad as…

John jumped at the feel of cold metal clamping onto his wrist after Sherlock pushed his sleeves up. “What the bloody hell!”

“Muggles are not permitted to enter the Ministry complex. This will allow you entry for this evening as my guest.”

Blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you not telling me?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, blinking at him as if John had just said something rather ridiculous. “Lestrade also must wear one.”

“And Lestrade is practically married to your brother, which, by the way you could have warned me about before you bribed me into coming along with you.”

Sherlock shrugged. John didn’t like it when Sherlock shrugged. Then, Sherlock did something else that made him a little uneasy and his stomach to flip. The fingers that had clamped the metal bracelet onto his wrist slid to his hand, holding it tightly as he pulled him to the fireplace. “We’re going to floo. It’s less disorienting than apparition and portkeys,” he said.

With his free hand he reached into the box mounted beside the man-sized opening and took a handful of powder. Pulling John into the tight space with him, he threw it to their feet and barked their destination.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

John stumbled out of the man-sized fireplace. The green flames died down as Sherlock stepped out behind him. The taller seemed completely unfazed by the experience whereas John was coughing a bit.

Once he was able to stop, John looked around in wonder. It was one thing to see the old architecture of Diagon Alley. And the hodgepodge of homey and gothic at Malfoy Manor. But this… this place was cavernous. It was similar to what John had seen in the films, right down to the color scheme. But somehow Hollywood had not done this place justice.

He felt Sherlock’s hand on his arm, gently urging him in the direction other strange characters were bustling. Sherlock kept him close, afraid of losing him in the crowd as they made their way towards the main event hall.

John looked around him at all the colourful robes and what for him seemed ridiculous fancy dress. Many in gold and red caught his attention, mainly because they were casting wary looks in their direction. He was sure Sherlock had noticed this long before he had, but the man seemed unfazed.

As what John could only assume was an entrance lobby ended, opening into a grandiose hall with ceilings so high he could hardly make out the outline of the beams supporting it, he felt Sherlock’s hot breath on his ear. “Stay close,” he said. “Remember everything I told you. If you forget-“

“Ask Lestrade,” John said.

Sherlock released his arm at last, but John was sure to never lose sight of him as they made their way around the walls.

The taller man was constantly looking, no, _observing_ the mass of people. John was sure he was searching for someone. Or something… the muggle couldn’t quite be sure given that he’d just passed two dwarves, a handful of what he was sure were goblins, and some sort of horned creature he couldn’t really think of a name for.

A large hand clasped his shoulder and he shouted in fright when it turned him around. Sherlock was suddenly behind him, alert and focused on the smiling and gray haired inspector.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said as John forced his breathing to slow.

“Sherlock, didn’t think you two would ever get here!” the other muggle replied. John eyed him closely, trying to be subtle as he tried to catch sight of his wrists. Yes, there, on the left. One of those metal pieces identical to the one Sherlock had placed on him.

Lestrade saw him looking and grinned, transferring his drink to his other hand and holding out his wrist for John to see. “Free pass,” he said with a smirk. “Won’t let these wizard types kick us out. Mycroft calls it _diplomatic immunity_ or something like that.”

John nodded as Sherlock leaned in to whisper in Lestrade’s ear. The detective inspector nodded to whatever he’d said before the consulting detective slipped away.

“C’mon, I’m supposed to take you over to Lily.”

“Where-“

“I don’t really want to know. Probably going to yell at his brother or something.”

**o0o**

John had spent most of the evening with Lily, who had introduced him to so many people he’d lost track. Many of them weren’t all that impressed. But some, like the Longbottoms, were very pleased to meet him.

It was Mrs. Longbottom that brought up one of things Sherlock had told him specifically never to mention first. Those dreadful (and according to Mr. Malfoy slanderous) books…

“You’ve read them, I’m sure,” Mrs. Longbottom said, her voice just as dreamy as John had imagined it would be. “Tell us, what did you think?”

“Before seeing all of this?” John asked, unsure of how he should answer that question. He didn’t want to offend anyone, and he most certaintly didn’t want an offended wizard to, well, hex him or anything.

She eagerly nodded, her husband groaned playfully. “Luna… really. Must you ask every muggle that?”

“I’m sure the hedgehog would like to talk with someone who won’t speak in purely negative tones of Ginerva’s master work.”

“Well…” John started. “Honestly?”

Mrs. Longbottom nodded.

“I thought you were married to Rolf Scamander.”

“Hrm… I was. For a little while. But he didn’t share my opinions on the crumple-horned snorkack. Now then, I know you’re far more interrested in the differences between what you’ve been led to believe and what actually exists,” she said smiling. “But there’s so little time. Perhaps you can visit us. Neville and I would love to have you and Severus visit. We haven’t seen our godson for many years.”

She said something else John didn’t quite understand. Something about cats in scarves and hedgehogs in teacups. Or some such nonsense.

Lily assured him as they moved on to another small group that Mrs. Longbottom was quite harmless, if a little strange. She also pointed out that she and her husband were the owners of _The Quibbler_ , and he didn’t have to worry about troublesome press from them.

The next group she took him to were more of the same. Friends of her family. One or two ministry officials that worked with Mycroft. He was surprised to find that one the one who had hired them for the Irene Adler case was there as well.

“Buckingham Palace,” John had said, catching the man off guard.

“Y…Yes,” he stammered. “Dr. Watson, I had not expected-“

“Of course you hadn’t, you boring third rate middle man.” Sherlock made his presence known by that sharp tongue. “Excellent memory, John,” he said once he was at his flatmate’s side. “And your associate,” the detective said in mock enthusiasm. Only John, and maybe his sister, could tell it was a false emotion. “I believe you instructed me to put on my trousers.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. John frowned, watching him from the corner of his eye. The man was agitated already. Not that it took a lot to agitate Sherlock when he was in what he considered an undesirable situation… but still.

“I see this time you took the advice,” the politician wizard said.

Sherlock merely smirked. “John forgot to pick up my sheet from the cleaners again,” he snapped, taking John by the arm. “I need a drink.”

“But you don’t-“

“I said, I need a drink,” Sherlock repeated, pulling John away.

The muggle looked around as he was pulled by the arm, stumbling a bit behind Sherlock. “Slow down, you beanpole!” John snapped. “My legs are shorter, remember.”

Soon Lily had caught up with them. “Sev-“

Sherlock hissed at her, and she corrected herself. “Sherlock. What’s gotten-“

He cast an angry glare at her before pulling John out of the large crowd and to a table. It was close to an exit, John noted. Though where those doors led to he had not a clue.

Lily gave John a sympathetic look, but knew to back away from her brother. Even John could see he was in one of his moods.

“Sherlock, you can let go now,” John said firmly. The other man’s hand released him instantly as he turned to face him. The army doctor’s brow furrowed. “What’s happened now then?”

“We should never have come.”

John shrugged, pulling out a chair and having a seat. He sat looking up at his friend, worried but knowing that the last time he’d tried to get Sherlock to open up… Well, Baskerville was a long time ago now. So he tried a different tactic than before. “Be more specific Sherlock,” he said. “How will I know what you mean if you aren’t clear in your data?”

“Are you mocking me?” Sherlock snapped.

John shook his head earnestly. “No,” he replied, indicating the chair closest to him. “I’m trying to put what **you** taught me to good use. Now, be specific.”

Sherlock was slightly impressed. Not much, but enough for him to know it didn’t happen that often and for a moment he was reminded exactly why he had become, dare he say it, sentimental towards the man. He had his moments.

“Both,” Sherlock said. “Specifically back to the Manor. I should have cursed father and be done with it all.”

“You mean kill him and have me help you hide the body,” John teased.

“Yes.”

So John picked apart Sherlock’s words and shook his head. “Your father’s said something. Again.”

Sherlock waved at him with a frustrated huff of air. “The man never stops _saying something_. That man, he has the audacity to call me an insufferable child-“

“You are an insufferable child,” John said. “Most of the time.”

“And then he demands to know why I refuse to accept my place in the Wizengmont. I’m not a politician. I despise the whole wizarding community and they share my sentiments.”

John sighed, leaning to press his back against the chair and eye his best mate closely. There was somethng he wasn’t saying. Something bothering him more than he was letting on. But he couldn’t quite…

And then as a woman went by with a tray of drinks Sherlock reached up, grabbed two and tossed his head back to down them both. John, astonished, managed a frown. “Sherlock, maybe we should get you home.”

“Home… Yes. Let’s leave tonight.”

“I meant back to the Manor. We have to stay at least until Christmas.”

“No we don’t.”

“You promised your…”

Sherlock sighed, then gave a slow nod. “Mummy,” he groaned. “Remind me after Christmas to turn Mycroft into a platypus and my father into a ferret. A blind albino ferret which I shall then take and deliver to Baskerville myself. Let’s see who’s the bloody family pet then.”

John spent the remainder of the evening holding Sherlock’s wand and refusing to give it back to him. Occasionally Lily would bring people by the table but Sherlock would glare at them until the atmosphere became so uncomfortable they excused themselves.

Harry and Draco came by once. Father and son refused to speak to one another, casting idendical masks of hate between them as Harry tried his best to be cheerful and inquire about John’s holidays so far.

* * *

“…And your Uncle Greg came to sit with us for a while. He’d drank too much and your Uncle Mycroft was tired of getting his feet stepped on when they were dancing. Then again, Greg never has been a very graceful dancer.”

The twins yawned and John stood to tuck them in and kiss them each good night. When he closed the door and went downstairs he found Sherlock standing in the kitchen. His hand was pressed against the worktop and his face an emotionless mask. But one look into his husband’s eyes and John knew he’d just heard some bad news.

The phone was in his hand, his eyes darting between it and now John as he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

John closed the distance quickly, taking the phone away. A quick glance told him there were no text messages. It must have been an actual call. “What’s wrong?” John asked.

Sherlock said nothing. He only looked away until John reached up and took his chin in his hands, forcing the detective to look back at him. “Sherlock, tell me what’s happened.”

“ _Mrs. Hudson_.”

That tone. Cold. Emotionless. But John knew… He knew in the pit of his stomach the weight of this loss on his husband. The woman had been like a mother to him. To both of them.

He wrapped his arms around his husband and held him in the kitchen for a while. When they finally broke apart, John watched as Sherlock moved to the livingroom. Across it to the window. He picked up his violin and and touched the bow to the strings.

**o0o**

They had people in and out of the building for weeks. The twins had wanted to attend the services, because they wanted to be there to make sure their daddies were alright. But they’d been left with their grandparents’ manor instead.

Afterwards, they spent day after day sitting on the steps in front of their bedroom. Watching the people that came and went. Watching a tiny, frail old woman look up at them with such sad, sad eyes.

Hudson had told Harriet that the old woman was Mrs. Hudson’s sister. Harriet had gone down to give the woman her stuffed hedgehog, but the woman only smiled kindly and told her to keep it.

After that John made sure the twins were in the flat proper when the movers were around.

They laid up at night, listening to Sherlock’s violin as he played the same sad tune. Or sometimes listen to their parents discussing things when they thought the twins weren’t paying attention. But they always were. Always observing.

Three weeks after Mrs. Hudson passed Sherlock was tucking the twins into bed. But before he kissed their forheads goodnight, he stopped. “You two haven’t asked for a story in recent weeks.”

Sheepishly, Hudson spoke. “You and daddy were busy.”

“And you were so sad,” Harriet added. Sherlock frowned. He thought he’d been able to mask his emotions, like he had used to… Maybe he just wasn’t as good at playing the sociopath anymore.

“Would you like me to tell you what comes next in the story?” he asked them.

Harriet looked to her brother, who blinked at her, unsure what to say. She looked then to Sherlock. “Will it make you feel better?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m supposed to worry about you, not the other way around,” he said but, after a moment, he gave a small nod. “Yes. I think it just might.” He sat down carefully at the end of Harriet’s bed. “Where did he leave off the last time?”

They really had to think for a moment before answering. So much had happened since then…

“Oh! The Yule Ball. You were very unhappy about it.”

“And daddy was stuck with you being in such a foul mood.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Sounds like right now, doesn’t it?”

They nodded in unison.

“Just like now,” Sherlock began. “John was trying to get my spirits back up. So after spending an agonizing few hours at the table with me, he told me to get up out of my chair and find something to amuse myself…”

* * *

“Go talk to someone Sherlock, just for five minutes. Really.”

“Give me back my wand, and I may consider not turning you into a hedgehog.”

John rolled his eyes. “What is it with you wizards and hedgehogs?”

Sherlock now gave John his full attention rather than glaring at anyone who decided to come near. Especially anyone in gold and red robes. “What do you mean… _you wizards and hedgehogs_? Who else mentioned-“

“That looney Mrs. Longbottom. Your ah, godmother I think? Cats and scarves and hedgehogs in teacups. It was hard to follow. Up until then she was actually quite pleasant to talk to.”

Ash colored eyes narrowed suspiciously. “She didn’t mention children, did she?”

“No.”

“Short children?”

“No,” John repeated, now officially creeped out. “Why?.. I’m not going to get pregnant from drinking these weird wizard drinks am I?”

Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss the thought as it came. “Of course not. If that were the case, I’d imagine Lestrade would be the size of a planet year round.”

John scrunched up his face. “I really didn’t need that mental picture. Really… Oh god, now my mind’s gone straight to… Damn it, Sherlock! Do you know how long it’s going to take to look your brother in the face again?”

Finally, that scowl and glare lessened.

“Go find something to amuse yourself with. Observe and deduce people for a while. That always cheers you up.”

“Mmm… No one worth deducing.”

John blinked at him. “Seriously?… All these wizards and witches and… well, other things and not a single one of them is interresting?” John groaned. “Go dance or something. There’s a couple of girls that keep circling back this way. Blokes, too if you’d rather.”

“One condition,” Sherlock said, his voice changing as if contemplating a most wicked plan, but John wasn’t paying him any mind.

“I’m seriously going to need something stronger than… whatever this is to get that picture out of my mind.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

“John,” Sherlock said after a few moments.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes as if that would make the mental picture dissipate. It didn’t, but at least he could try and focus on Sherlock’s voice.

“Wha-“

And that was when he was interrupted by a rather large man shouting something John didn’t understand (but could have sworn was some sort of latin) as he made his way over. Harry and Draco were not too far behind.

“Kingsley!” Harry called out by way of warning, trying to stop him, but it was too late. He had spotted Sherlock and was not about to let the younger wizard get away.

Sherlock stood quickly, seizing John by the arm. “This way,” he said, trying to push his way through. But the unwanted attention was far too much and the Minister of Magic himself was soon upon them.

The first thing John noticed was that the man was a full foot taller than Sherlock (at least), and that was quite a feat. The second thing John noticed were the man’s robes. Colourful and bright, they reminded him of traditional African dress beneath the stuffy black thing worn over them.

Third, John noticed Sherlock giving him a sympathetic look as he squeezed his arm gently and let go to turn around with that false politeness in his voice. “Minister Shacklebolt,” Sherlock said with his perfected forced cheer. “I’m so sorry, but you’ve caught me at a bad time. I was just about to-“

“Nonsense boy!” the minister boomed to be heard over the chatter and festive music. He clamped a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and looking past the Minister he could see his parents. Waiting in anticipation of what would happen next. After all, the last time Sherlock and Shacklebolt were in the same room, the minister had been turned into a ring-tailed lemur and Sherlock had gone on the run.

Harry held his breath, panic written all over his face. Draco was equally worried, his hand inching near his wand.

John coughed, catching both the Minister’s and Sherlock’s attention in the tense moment. Sherlock acted on instinct, taking John’s arm and pulling him closer. “John,” he said in that same syrupy tone. “May I introduce you to the Minister of Magic, Lord Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

John watched him from the corner of his eye, unsure what to do next as the Minister released Sherlock’s shoulder. “Ah,” the big man said. “I see you have indeed come to your senses at long last, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Holmes,” Sherlock corrected automatically, much to his parents’ dismay behind the minister.

The old wizard chuckled, but John could easily tell by the gleam in the man’s eye that there was more he wanted to discuss.

“Pardon?”

“My name,” Sherlock said as if it were casual conversation. “Isn’t that right, John?”

He felt like a human shield, having realized rather quickly that Sherlock wanted to be as far away from this man as possible and since he couldn’t get away as easily as he’d liked… John was put in the line of fire. “Oh, yes. Yes,” John said, not knowing what else he should say. “Why, just the other day you were saying to me how you much prefer your muggle name. Since, of course, we live in muggle London with all the other muggles.”

Kingsley raised a brow. “I knew you had worked in your brother’s department before the… unpleasantness. I had no idea you had taken such a strong interest.”

“Yes. He finds us very interesting to study and observe,” John added. “It’s quite astounding how much he’s learned.”

Sherlock squeezed his arm rather painfully then before casting him that familiar angry glare.

Harry and Draco thought now was a good time to intervene, stepping into the conversation from the sides. “Minister, please excuse our son. It’s his first time among our sort since-” Harry cut his eyes to Sherlock, then John and back again. Sherlock subtly shook his head, and Harry continued. “Well, since the unpleasantness was at last brought to light. Much of the work he does is among the muggles.”

Draco nodded. “Yes. He is quite fond of them, as you can see by his good friend here,” he drawled. “Though that is not an uncommon trait among nymphs like himself.”

“Not a nymph,” Sherlock corrected, quite annoyed.

Harry gave his son a pleading look. “Why don’t you go find your sister. I’m sure she’d love to show her big brother and his muggle off to more of her dear friends. I heard the ladies of the Hollyhead Harpies were quite keen to know the function of a rubber duck.”

John laughed at the thought of a bunch of crazy witches crowded around a small yellow duck, poking it with their wands and waiting to see what it did. It left a smile on his face, and when he looked to Sherlock, he could tell the other man was smiling now, too. A genuine smile that lit up those ash colored eyes. “Come on,” John said. “After all, who better to explain rubber ducks than a real live muggle.”

Sherlock gave a nod to his parents, a silent thanks for the rescue before excusing himself and John. Quickly they made their way to a quiet corridor off the main hall.

“Finally,” Sherlock muttered, leaning against a wall and letting himself slide just a little.

“What was that back there? With the big… big man?” John still couldn’t quite believe how big and broad that man had been.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, looking around as if afraid they’d been followed. “I tampered with the Department of Mysteries, removed anything that was even remotely to do with myself.”

“Blimey.”

“And I turned the minister into a ring-tailed lemur.”

John stared at him with wide eyes in disbelief. “Sherlock, you’ve done a lot of crazy things-“

“That was the first act of which you would classify as crazy that I had ever done,” he replied, waiting for his pulse to slow.

John stood just a few feet before him, shaking his head as he tried to imagine a young Sherlock, wand in hand causing havoc, but he just couldn’t get past the lemur. “Really? A lemur?”

He shrugged. “I was pressed for time, desperate to escape. It was the first creature that came to mind.”

“A lemur,” John laughed, picturing that towering man as a tiny fluffy creature. The more he thought about it, the more his laughter became a giggle. It wasn’t until he finally stopped that he noticed Sherlock had joined in.

He smiled, knowing it was a sound only he ever got to hear. It made him feel like he was allowed to be closer to Sherlock than his own kind. His own family. Closer than even Mycroft. He was just pondering this when Sherlock pushed off the wall upon which he leaned. He’d reached up to smooth down the lapels of John’s jacket.

John looked up at him with his brow furrowed. Sherlock let his hands fall to his sides. “That suit cost me a lot. I don’t want you getting it wrinkled,” Sherlock said by way of explanation. John continued to look at him quizzically as the wizard looked back the way they had come. “It should be safe to slip out in a few moments. The celebrations should be coming to a close shortly.”

**o0o**

Once John and Sherlock had returned to the manor, by way of floo, Sherlock had gone straight to their bedroom. The moment John had entered, Sherlock left again with an arm full of robe and clothing.

He’d decided a nice, cold shower was exactly what he needed right now. It would force him to be alert and to focus.

After his shower, he dressed in his favorite flowy blue robe and a pair of plain pajama bottoms.

“Kreacher!” he shouted as he stalked through the halls towards his father’s potions workroom. It was a place he knew to be kept under lock, key, and ward. But that wasn’t going to stop him. “Where is that miserable… KREACHER!”

The annoying pop of the house elf’s arrival didn’t go unnoticed. “Master Severus,” the house elf spat at him, knowing now that the middle child of his masters’ didn’t particularly care for it. “What can Kreacher be doing for you, sir?”

“Fetch my wand from John.”

“Will Master be needing anything more from Kreacher?”

“My. Wand,” he snapped. “And make it quick.”

He waited impatiently, pacing back and forth in front of the door. He had no time to waste, but easily could have gained access with wandless magic… Had it not been for the fact that his tended to be powerful, yes, but also unpredictable. Impossible to control without his wand.

Finally, Kreacher returned, holding out the wand in disgust. Sherlock took it and shooed him away before turning to the door. While his accuracy was not what it used to be, not like his days at Hogwarts, it was still better than doing this wandless.

He was forced to dismantle the charms and wards on the door first, then the secondary layer beneath that. His father was no fool…

After ten minutes of intensive but quick work the door opened and Sherlock stepped inside. He remained in the workroom for nearly an hour before his brother found him, having just come home and needing to fetch a potion to prevent his partner from having a terrible hangover in the morning.

He was quite surprised to see Sherlock at their father’s cauldron, just about to tip a vial of valerian extract into it.

“What in the name of Merlin are you doing!”

“Suppressant,” Sherlock said as if it explained everything.

Mycroft quickly pulled his brother away, looking out the door to make sure they were still alone. “Sherlock, you know what happens-“

“I’m not brewing a bloody drug. Just a simple draft, which I make at home all the time.”

Mycroft took the vial from him and sniffed it, crinkling his nose at the disgusting odor. “Valerian.”

“Mycroft, allow me to continue.”

His older brother’s face was stern as he took in the evidence. The ingredients Sherlock had used were clearly marked, all of them Mycroft knew to be harmless with non-addictive properties. Save the valerian. “How much of this do you need?”

“Enough to last the end of this bloody holiday.”

“Why?”

Sherlock raised a brow.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock heaved a great sigh and looked away. “Because it would be a very unpleasant experience explaining why I’ve woken John in the middle of the night while trying to paw at him in his sleep.”

Mycroft chuckled. giving a small nod. “I’ll tell father he needs to be more creative with his security. Fifteen minutes?”

“Ten. I didn’t even break a sweat.” He snatched the vial back, taking this small exchange as the all clear to finish what he was doing.

Mycroft remained for the duration of Sherlock’s brewing, snatching a bottle of hangover cure before locking the room back up when they’d left.

* * *

“So I took my potion that night before bed and everything was fine.”

Harriet frowned. “Is that like the one you take every morning with milk?”

Sherlock had thought nobody knew about that. Well, no one but John. He would have to be much more careful about his disgusting nutrient supplements in the future. “Very perceptive, Harriet. But no. It was nothing like what I take in the mornings.”

Hudson was frowning at him. “Then why did you used to take it? You know taking stuff you don’t need is bad for you.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, trying to put it into words they would understand. He hoped what he came up with would work. After all, they were his children, and were far more intelligent than they appeared. “Well a long time ago before you two were ever born, when I met your daddy, I knew right then we were supposed to love each other. But your daddy didn’t know it then. And I wanted him to figure it out on his own.”

“Like a game!”

“Sort of, yes. If you like to think of it like that,” Sherlock said. “The potions I took helped me to hide my magic from your daddy. Because I didn’t want to scare him away.”

They watched him, identical eyes picking him apart just like he’d taught them from the cradle. They’d know he was lying, of course. But what they wouldn’t be able to piece together exactly was why or what part of his words were lies.

“And they helped me to keep my magic under control until your daddy was ready to tell me how much he loved me.”

After a tense moment the twins looked to one another as if exchanging information through silent twin communication. Then, they nodded. “Okay,” they said together. “But why do you take those other ones,” Harriet said.

“With the milk?” Hudson finished.

Sherlock had been prepared for this one. And it wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. “Remember when I was so very sick? Well, the doctors said I have to drink this icky stuff until it’s all gone so I don’t get sick again.”

They eyed him suspiciously. “Then why didn’t daddy give you some medicine?” Harriet.

“Because it’s a wizard bug,” Sherlock said.

“Oh…” Hudson started and he and Harriet both nodded. They knew all about those strange wizarding bugs. The only cure for those were icky potions from their wizard doctors.

Sherlock kissed his children good night and left them. As he backed out of the room and shut the door, he felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist and a face pressed against his back. The detective sighed, feeling John’s smile through the thin fabric of his robe. “You know, I think Mrs. Hudson might have been one of your psychics.”

“Seers, John,” he corrected as he just stood, letting John hold him on the landing. “And muggles are notorious for confusing coincidence with actual visions.”

John let him go, but took one of his hands and laced their fingers together. “Come on, I’ll make us a cuppa. We need to talk about what we’re going to do about the empty flats.”

“No,” Sherlock said, stopping halfway down the steps from their children’s bedroom. But when John pulled, he let himself be led down to the next landing. Back into John’s waiting arms. This time they stood facing one another, their hands still enmeshed. John looked up at his face, once more that mask his husband always threw up to shield himself.

“I know it hurts. And I know you don’t want to think about it. But we need to sort this out. She left this whole place to us. Not her sister, not her sister’s bloody mess of a daughter. Us. Letting it sit here half empty… She wouldn’t want that.”

Sherlock looked down towards the front door of 221. Down the seventeen steps to the door tucked just off to the side. 221A. He still expected to see the old woman in her purple dresses and her gaudy make up and her cheap perfume and costume jewelry. Expected to hear her complain about being their landlady and not their housekeeper. Not their babysitter. Expected to see her doddering about the place, leaving them little cakes when she thought they weren’t looking. Waiting up and worrying when they were out too late as if they were teenagers. Even if it was for a case.

“Mrs. Hudson always said it was better with people around. She always complained about the noise we made up here. But she didn’t mind it. Said they were the sounds of life and laughter.”

“And an exploding kitchen,” Sherlock added. “Bullets in the wall.”

John gave him a small smile, pushing himself up onto the tips of his toes so he could give him a peck on the cheek. “We need to sort it out soon. Before little Heather or Hamish arrive.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. “Heather? No. That’s a terrible name.”

“You named the twins. I get to name this one. And I happen to think Heather is a fine name for a girl.”

**o0o**

The next morning the twins were taken to their grandparents. Hudson wanted to ride along to New Scotland Yard, but John said it was no place for children. Especially when there were nasty folk about.

Harry and Draco didn’t mind. They actually enjoyed seeing their grandchildren without Sherlock around. It just made things… less noisy. And Harry was always happy to have family about now that Lily was off with her Quidditch team.

He’d taken the twins out to the gardens, it being quite a nice and sunny. They’d tried to get Draco to join them, but not even the ultra cuteness of the twins could compete with Draco’s duties at the ministry.

So, it was just the three of them. Roaming the gardens with a basket.

“Over here! Over here!” Harriet called out when she’d found the perfect spot.

Harry shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked out to the pond. He gave a nod and Hudson ran over with a beaming smile to the water’s edge. The old wizard was not far behind, setting the basket down and giving it a quick wave of his wand. The lid opened up and out came the dishes. Out flew the pale blue linen sheet. It settled on the grass as fruit and snacks danced a conga line out of the basket that couldn’t possibly be big enough to hold it all!

Hudson and Harriet were shouting happily, watching as their picnic set itself up for them.

“Look!” Hudson cried, pointing at a bowl that set itself down in the center of the sheet. The fruit danced around the top of the bowl before diving in like a synchronized swimming team.

Harry was chuckling softly. He knew they didn’t get to see much magic at home. His son had forbidden it from the house (and for good reason), so he couldn’t help using it to give them a little entertainment while they were visiting.

Once their lunch had settled itself for them to eat, the three sat down and dug in. Harriet peered into the basket, trying to work out how everything had fit. Hudson was scarfing down his sandwich between bites of pineapple and strawberries.

They spent their lunch watching the squirrels that ran through the gardens. Occasionally tossing them a little snack as they ate. Harry listened intently to his grandchildren’s stories, the pair unknowing that they were tattling on their parents. After all, to the children they were just funny little quirks. Or silly stories about bungling burglars. After a while, when most of the food had been eaten and the stories told, Harry noticed the twins had become quiet and still. Hudson even had that odd look that his father would get when he was deep in thought.

Harry watched them closely before speaking. “Something’s got you down has it?”

Harriet frowned, but nodded. The wizard opened his arms and motioned for them both to come sit closer. When they had, he wrapped his arms around them. “Tell gran all about it.”

So they did. They told him all about Mrs. Hudson, and her old sister who wouldn’t take Harriet’s hedgehog. And the people that came in and out of the downstairs flat. And how sad their daddies were about it. And that whenever father thought about the old woman he would pick up his violin and start playing. And when he did it made their daddy sad, too.

“And how do you two feel?” Harry asked.

The girl rubbed her eyes, trying her best not to cry. “She was nice.” Her twin nodded. “And she died.”

Harry frowned. “Yes,” he said. “But how do you _feel_ about that?”

Hudson shrugged. “Sad.” Harriet agreed, then added, “It makes my chest feel funny.”

That was a relief. He wouldn’t admit it, especially never in front of his son, but Harry was afraid the twins would be just as cold and hard as him. But no, they had just enough of John in there, too. To balance things out.

“Tell you what,” Harry said, giving his grandchildren a squeeze. “How about a story?”

“Oh oh! Christmas!” Harriet piped up from under one arm.

“Yes! Yes! The one where you met Daddy!”

“I was thinking more like Beetle the Bard or-“

“No.” Hudson and his sister crossed their arms over their chests and gave him a hard look. Okay, maybe there was more of Sherlock in them than he’d been willing to admit. “We want that story. Because that’s the story our daddies are telling us.”

“Then shouldn’t you wait-“

“Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greggy told us some, too!”

Harry closed green eyes with a sigh. He could feel them still watching him. Silently demanding that story.

“Okay,” he said at last because he knew he’d never be able to resist the pair of them when they worked together. “But I can only tell you the parts I know. The ones with me and your grandpa.”

He could feel them nod and settle against him as he opened his eyes again. “What have you heard so far?”

“The night of the ministry ball,” said Thing One.

“After father and daddy met that big man Kingsley. And then they went home. And father snuck into grandfather’s potions room,” said Thing Two.

“I thought that was Mycroft,” Harry said thoughtfully. The twins giggled. The old wizard thought back to that night, trying to choose something that would be appropriate for five year old ears. The fact that after he and Draco had returned home they had argued about their father (nothing new) was not something worth mentioning.

So he decided to start fresh with the next morning.

“Alright. Well, the next morning when I went down for breakfast, there were dozens of owls waiting at the windows of the kitchen…”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Harry yawned and scratched his lower back beneath his tshirt as he went into the kitchens for a bite to eat. He’s had a surprisingly restful sleep after the celebrations, and had thought things went well considering his middle child had attended as well.

He found Kreacher standing on the counter beside his husband, the pair of them watching out the windows. The house elf was the first to see him, and greeted him accordingly. Then it offered him food, which Harry accepted.

As he waited, he sat down facing the windows. Draco sighed. “It’s been like this all morning,” he said, turning at last and setting his mug on the table. “There’s forty two out there, at last count.” He sighed and pulled out a chair to sit opposite his husband. “And those are the ones Kreacher and I could see. There’s bound to be more perched up on the roof.”

Harry just yawned again and scratched at his unruly mop of black and gray. “Manage to get the post?”

“That IS the post.”

“I meant our normal post. The papers? Normal letters?”

Kreacher slid a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Harry before fetching more tea for Draco, who nodded to Harry’s question.

“Guess who’s on the front page of the _Prophet_?”

Harry groaned as he put his fork back down and took the morning edition when Draco unrolled it and slid it across. Emerald eyes swept across the page, taking in headline after headline before focusing in on the picture he was dreading. His son and his muggle were at a table. His son was scowling while the muggle was looking fairly uncomfortable. “Oh Merlin… At least they didn’t take one with Kingsley.”

“Page seven,” Draco drawled as he sipped his fresh tea. “There’s also an interesting comment in the special Holiday _Quibbler_ if you’re interested. Hedgehogs and cats are rather trendy this season, says Luna Longbottom.”

“At least she doesn’t print gossip and lies. That Skeeter woman is claiming Severus has been brewing love potions and passed them out among the party guests. Preposterous!” Harry put the paper down, rubbed his eyes with a groan, and finally ate his breakfast.

The pair of them ate in silence, reading through what little mail they had before planning out how to deal with the owls. Draco decided it would be best to use one of the disused bedrooms. Lock the door, open the window, and just let the blighters in with their mail.

It seemed a good idea, until Harry realized one of them would have to be in the room to open the window.

“Why have Severus do it?” Harry asked his husband, who ran a hand through his silver hair. “It’s his fault we’ve got so many of the bloody things.”

“Owls don’t like him. He doesn’t like owls. Things tend to get… blown up.”

“And that’s what happened to Ingrid,” Harry commented, thinking back on the owl Draco had sent before John and Sherlock had come to visit. Draco merely nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll do it. Owls love me. They’d only try to perch on you and peck your cheeks.”

Draco laughed. “I still don’t understand why they do that.”

So it was agreed. After Harry had eaten, he and Draco went upstairs to search for an unused room for the task of collecting the mail. Three hours later the last of the owls had finally left and Harry had let himself out of the room they had chosen.

Not expecting to suddenly see one of the masters of the house emerge from a hidden door in the wall, John Watson collided in fright with a suit of armor, knocking the rusted old thing down.

Harry, feathers in his hair, glasses askew and his dark red t-shirt slightly ripped, laughed and offered his hand. “Sorry about that young man,” he said, helping John to his feet. “I hadn’t expected anyone to be up at this hour.”

“It’s nearly noon,” John said, brushing the non-existent dirt off his striped jumper.

Harry chuckled. “Yes. Well…” he started but changed the subject as he picked feathers out of his hair. “Did you enjoy yourself last night? I know Se… Sherlock isn’t exactly the best of company-“

“Oh no. No. I had a great time Mr… Do I call you Mr. Potter or Mr. Malfoy? Sherlock didn’t quite fill me in on the cultural… I mean, Lily tried but… Can I just call you Harry? It’ll be a lot easier.”

Harry willed himself not to laugh at John’s obvious discomfort. After straightening his glasses he briefly glanced to the book under John’s arm and smiled, remembering the text quite well from his first year at Hogwarts. “Harry is fine.” He watched John shift his weight from one foot to the other. He was a fill minute away from becoming fidgety. Most muggles were like that, he had noticed, when confronted with the impossible. “Have you plans for later?”

“Uh… No. Not really. Just thought I’d read. Try and get my mind around all of this.”

“If you would like, I may be able to help with that. I remember when I was suddenly thrust into,” he gestured with a hand, indicating in general everything, “ _All of this_. It was still hard to believe after my first year at Hogwarts.”

The muggle nodded, a little to eagerly Harry thought. “Tea then,” Harry said. “This evening in the east wing study. I’ll send Kreacher to fetch you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“No,” John said. “Not at all. I’ll tell Sher-“

“No. I think it best my son not sit in. I love him dearly, but he can be a bit…”

John laughed. “I know. Alright then. I’ll uh, see you.”

Harry watched his guest as he walked quickly down the hall and chuckled under his breath. First, he’d need a shower. Then… he and Draco could go through the massive mountains of mail in the spare room.

**o0o**

Draco sat on one side of the desk with Harry on the other. They’d shifted quite a bit of the letters and packages to Draco’s personal study, and were now going through them carefully. Much had to do with their middle child, of course. And much of it was not pleasant.

“Oh, this one,” Draco said, holding it up briefly before laying it back down on the desk. “Is a letter from Pansy Parkinson claiming her aunt Maria was framed.”

“That was Lady Moran wasn’t it?”

Draco nodded. “The same.”

“Parkinson…” Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. “This is getting worse and worse. _Why_ does Sev have to make enemies of former death eaters? Honestly, has that boy learned nothing-“

“He’s spent too long among the muggles,” Draco said, turning to open another blasted letter. “He needs to come home and stop this foolishness. He can even bring that muggle of his with him, I don’t care.”

Harry eyed him across the desk, giving a hard emerald glare. Draco knew his husbands opinion on the matter was much different from his own, and knew to drop the subject. So he stored it away for another time. “Ah. Another letter from an admirer,” Draco said, tossing the letter in his hand across.

Harry’s attention went to the handwriting and he let out a groan. “Ginny…” He ripped it apart without even a second glance. Unfortunately, it was charmed and pieced itself back together. He set it aside onto a pile he’d started for the fireplace later in the day.

“Aren’t you going-“

“No. I don’t care if she wants to place nice now. That blasted woman’s… Do you have any idea what it’s like to have children see you in the shops and remind you that you look nothing like Daniel Radcliffe? Who the bloody hell is Daniel Radcliffe?” He shook his head in frustration. “It was bad enough with her making you out to be some sort of weak and sniveling junior death eater and he ridiculous love story hero worship subplot. Whatever she has to say to me now is nothing worth my time.”

Draco raised a brow, knowing it was dangerous waters to continue the conversation… but sometimes he knew Harry just needed to let it out. Even if he had heard it all before. “Perhaps she wants to finally apologize.”

“She did. And then she wrote _**Order of the Phoenix**_ ,” Harry scoffed. “And in the next one she wrote that I nearly killed… I’m sorry, but I would never do such a thing to you. Had I known Ginny had stolen my book I’d have shown her what that cutting curse did first hand.” The former wizarding Savior had clenched his hands so tightly he snapped the quill in his hand.

Draco reached across and patted his other hand with a nod. “I know. I’ll make sure to remind the Ministry that they need to keep a closer eye on her. She’s using owls when she knows she’s been prohibited.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, returning to the stack of letters. He found a few from his godson Teddy, and set these aside for Severus later. There was one from the ministry itself, which was addressed to Severus as well.

Eventually Harry grew tired of dealing with it and muttered something about just burning it all. Draco thought it was a good idea, but reminded him that somewhere in all that mess there might actually be something important.

So, Harry left him to it, opting to just sit and watch as they talked about this and that. Mostly Quidditch, Lily, and Ministry business before Draco mentioned their sons odd choice in companions.

“Severus I can understand. After all the trouble he’s gone to make it very plain he wants nothing to do with our world, it’s not much of a surprise. At least he found an intelligent one.”

“Your inner pureblood is showing again, Malfoy,” Harry said in a playful, yet warning tone.

“Yes. But it’s true. I’d rather have John Watson under this roof than the other one. Scorpius could do so much better.”

Harry scrunched up his nose in annoyance. “I happen to like Greg. He’s perfect for Scorpius. He’s funny, he’s laid back, and he’s warm. A perfect match for that cold, calculating Slytherin of yours.”

“Ours.”

“He was your favorite,” Harry reminded him, then added, “If you’re so interested in marrying our children off why not try playing matchmaker with Lily? Or do you want at least one of our kids to not hate you for the remainder of your very long life?”

Draco sighed. “Look, I know you don’t approve of arranged marriages-“

“And might I remind you about the one you refused-“

“Which caused a rift in the Wizengmont. One that had Scorpius did what he had been told, and that had Severus decided it a good idea to feign madness, I could have repaired by now. And then all those silly modernization laws you’ve been working on tirelessly for the greater part of eighty years would finally get pushed through.” Draco gave him a hard look, almost that old Malfoy sneer of his that never had quite gone away. “ _Then_ our community as a whole could do away with traditions like arranged marriages and outdated philosophy concerning muggles. I mean, most wizards don’t even know what a telephone is!”

It was the same argument they always had. And it would end the same way. Neither man would give an inch, which was precisely why they had worked so well for so long. After a few more minutes of stalwart arguing, just for argument’s sake there was a knock at the door.

“Come on,” Draco said, clearing away another letter and adding it to the burn pile before grabbing another on his stack.

Curly black hair was seen before the head atop which it sat. Sherlock poked his head in the door with an air of disdain. “Mother. Father.”

“Severus,” Draco said without looking up from what turned out to be a pleasant letter from Hermione Weasley. The only Weasley that was actually quite in good standing with him, surprisingly. “Enter.”

Harry watched Draco, who made no sign of further acknowledging their son’s presence, before turning his full attention to said son. “Yes. What do you need?”

Sherlock, that blank Malfoy mask he had perfected before all other things in his life, removed a letter from the inside of his shirt. “I received an owl from Ginerva Weasley.”

“Get rid of it,” Harry said.

“I tried. Apparently, it is fire resistant.”

“Destruction resistant is more like it,” Harry muttered, turning in his chair to lean sideways against the desk. “I assume you opened it then.”

He nodded, stepping further into the study and unfolding the letter. He offered it using only his index and thumb, as if it were greatly offensive. “She would like to attend your annual feast. She also would like to hear of my travels in the muggle world.”

“No doubt for another bloody book,” Draco muttered as Harry skimmed through the letter before turning his attention back to the one he had tried to destroy. This one, he finally opened. Like in the one addressed to his son, she asked to attend his annual feast. She also asked how he was doing, as well as his children. No mention of Draco. Not that he was surprised. Then she had asked rather insistently after Severus.

“Has your brother-“

“Yes. He has already dispatched a cease and dessist order. Unfortunately as she is a well known figure among muggles…”

“Yes. That would be rather hard to explain, now wouldn’t it.” He got to his feet, leaving the two letters on the desk and picking up a small stack. These he gave to his son, who frowned at him but did not say a word. Instead, he waited patiently as Harry bid them both a good evening and left the study.

**o0o**

It was late evening when John was called to the east wing, escorted by Kreacher.

When he came in, he was astounded by the dramatic difference between it and the rest of the manor. The chairs were old and worn. The large fireplace was blazing but the room only felt comfortably warm against the December cold. Tapestries hung from the walls between and above bookcases that held everything from _**War and Peace**_ to _**The Complete Works of Shakespeare**_.

John recognized most of the trinkets adorning shelves and tables in this orange and gold toned room. They were non-magical. _Muggle-made_.

Harry called to him from one of the high backed chairs close to the fire. “John, please, come sit.”

John saw only an arm, indicating the vacant seat beside him before the fire.

The muggle crossed the room slowly, taking in the sight that reminded him, surprisingly, of the flat he shared with Sherlock. It was homey and cluttered.

Harry knew none of this, of course. Not until years later when John had confessed that this room was his favorite in the entire manor. For now the old wizard contented himself with the muggle’s company. When John had come to sit, he watched as the younger brushed off the seat before placing himself upon it. Harry noted he did that a lot but had been polite enough not to comment.

He must have been giving a rather confused look, however, as John sighed. “Habit,” he said before further explaining, “Sherlock leaves all sorts of things on the seats at home. Once sat in a sticky seat because he hadn’t properly cleaned up after an experiment. Don’t ask, I don’t really want to know what he was doing.” John gave a laugh, obviously becoming more comfortable.

Harry watched him, though. He was very nervous. Had been from the moment he had arrived at the manor. Even when his son was being an utter prat, John had been polite and even apologetic for the behavior. Now, however, he started to unwind. That was the power of a warm fire and a nice hot cup of tea.

Their conversation was, of course as Harry had promised earlier in the day. John asked him about wizards, commenting that Lily had tried to explain but he still didn’t quite understand. Leading to his looking in the library and fetching that old schoolbook. Harry used examples of his own first encounters with the wizarding world to explain the simple concepts to John. There were long pauses, but they were more companionable than anything else.

When moments like that fell, Harry would ask John about himself. Each time the doctor brought Sherlock up in conversation, Harry would steer him away from that particular subject and back to where he’d started. Eventually he gave up on this idea, finding it quite difficult to keep John from talking about his flatmate and just let him ramble on.

Bemused, Harry listened to the case of the pink lady. And the blind banker. He was appalled by some of the parts of what John had called _The Great Game_. Many of the facts concerning the cases, he already knew thanks to Mycroft’s regular reports on his brother’s well being. But the stories that went with them. The experiences and the observations John had made painted an entirely different picture.

Just when John had gotten to the tale he called _The Woman_ Harry had noticed the muggle was yawning more than he should. Consulting the clock on the mantelpiece, he laughed, causing the doctor to stare at him in slight confusion.

“Apologies, John,” Harry said, picking up the teapot between them and lifting the lid to peer in. “It seems we’ve run out at last. And time’s gone and left us behind.”

Now understanding what his best friend’s parent had meant, he agreed that it was rather late. Harry offered to have Kreacher show him back to his room, but John had declined. He’d seen a second entrance to the library on his way before and would take a shortcut. Harry knew this was a lie. John wanted to peruse the shelves again. But he said nothing other than to bid him a good night.

When Harry was quite sure John had left him, he pulled out his wand and tapped the teapot lid. “You can come out now, Severus.”

There was no sound. No movement.

Harry sighed and held out his hand. “ _Accio_ invisibility cloak.” Seconds later Sherlock just seemed to appear from thin air where he had wedged himself between a bookcase and the fireplace. The shear, silvery fabric darted to Harry’s hand. He shook his head as he caught it and draped it over the the side of his armchair. “Honestly, son,” he said. “You didn’t think I’d recognize my own trick? I’ve lived half my life under that cloak. I assume you slipped in when John entered the study.”

Sherlock said nothing as he moved to take the seat that John had vacated moments before. Before he sat down, however, he absently brushed the seat like John had before him. This greatly amused the elder, and he sat with his hands folded in his lap.

“He always leaves crumbs,” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he sank down into the chair. He twisted his body so that one leg draped over the side, dangerously close to the antique tea set on the table between the chairs.

“I like him. It sounds like he would have made an excellent Hufflepuff.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sort of hum.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t-“

“I want to get John as far away from all of this as possible. It’s bad enough we must deal with Mycroft on a regular basis.” He picked at a button on his shirt.

Harry chuckled. “John honestly has no idea how important he is.”

“I’d be lost without my blogger,” his son said casually, still disinterrested.

“There’s that word again,” Harry said, latching onto that strange word. “Is that a term of endearment of some sort? Or an occupation? John-“

“Muggle term. Very broad meaning and rather mundane,” Sherlock drawled, sitting up just enough to adjust himself in the chair. “In most cases.”

“This is not one?”

“No. Now quiet. You’re distracting me,” Sherlock said, pressing his hands together under his chin as he began to zone out into thought.

“Ruddy mind palace again…” Harry muttered, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea and turning back to the fire…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the fact we've decided that J.K. Rowling is Ginny Weasley's muggle alias, we actually do enjoy her work and the literary universe she has created. But.... it just made sense for us to do this. It's nothing against her personally, it's just we had to come up with some sort of explanation as to why the books even exist in our fic!verse. And we really don't like Ginny, and see her honestly as just some girl created for the sole purpose of marrying Harry, popping out some Lil' Potters, and loving Harry only for his fame. But that's just our opinion of the character, and the reasoning we're working with for making her the writer of the books.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

“The next few days went pretty well. I continued to meet with your dad in my study in the evenings. Your father didn’t try to sneak in again after I took my invisibility cloak back. And my children, your aunt and uncle, behaved themselves quite admirably.”

There was a laugh behind them before Harry turned his head to see Draco. “This is where you’ve gone to.”

“Grandpa!” Harriet and Hudson cried, pulling away from Harry and rushing to their other grandparent. They wrapped their arms around each of his legs.

“Early day?” Harry asked as Draco pried the children off him and ushered them back to the sheet and the picnic.

“Hm?” he murmured, sitting opposite his husband with the bowl of half-eaten fruit between them. “Oh, no. I just walked out.”

Harry couldn’t help but smirk. Draco plucked an apple from the bowl and examined it closely before putting it back and taking out a pear. “What?” he asked of the other man. “Each moment I was in that room with those people I could feel my IQ steadily dropping. Just because they are certified to teach does not mean they should. Bloody idiots, the lot of them. Believe it or not, the Longbottoms were the only competent people in the whole blasted room. Aside from Minerva.”

Harry smiled, ruffling Harriet’s hair before stretching his legs out and settling back again. Though Draco had learned to enjoy the company of many of Harry’s dearest friends, he didn’t exactly compliment them often. And this, Harry knew, was as close to one as the Longbottoms ever got. “That bad, huh?”

Draco hissed and then bit into his pear. He sat crosslegged on the sheet and between bites he asked them about their day, not wanting to dwell on his own. Harriet and Hudson launched into this grand tale of finding the perfect picnic spot. And then they divered into a hodgepodge of cattepillars and a weird purple weed growing nearby. Harry was quite impressed that they’d been paying so close attention to their surroundings as well as his story. Clearly they got such a strong gift of observation from Sherlock.

“And then Gran was telling us about-“

“The time when you and he met-“

“Daddy and that Christmas-“

“And then you came and spoilt the rest of the story.”

Draco could get whiplash turning his head from one child to the other as they spoke. He didn’t like such an annoying habit. It reminded him of the Weasley twins… Well… when there were twins at any rate. He’d come to the conclusion when the pair learned to speak that all sets of twins must do this, and they must all instinctively know how annoying it is to everyone around them.

Now, twin pairs of ash colored eyes stared at him expectantly. “What?”

“Well,” Harriet began. “Daddy told us a story. Father told us a story.”

“Uncle Greggy and Uncle Crofty told us a story.”

“Gran told us one. Now you tell us one.”

Draco shook his head. “No.”

“Please!” they cried in unison, giving him their best Sad-Puppy-Watson look.

Harry laughed, reaching out and wrapping them in his arms again to pull them back to him. “I don’t think stories are Grandpa Draco’s specialty. He usually just sits and glowers at people when they tell them.”

They pouted and looked at Draco again. But the silver haired former Slytherin was steadfast, and plucked another pear from the bowl.

To placate them, Harry launched into one of his own stories of his youth, in particular…

“The time your grandpa was turned into a ferret.”

Draco shuddered at the words, but the twins were grinning like mad, enthralled at their gran’s tale. They were happy, and Harry seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. So Draco suffered through it, tossing his husband a long suffering glare from time to time to remind him that he was not amused by the story.

It only egged Harry on.

The four of them spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden. Laughing and munching on the fruit until it was all gone. The elder wizards trading stories of their school days at Hogwarts for the amusement of their grandchildren until their parents showed up to take them away.

That evening over a late supper Draco had finally talked about his day, or rather the half day spent at the ministry. He’d had to sit through a meeting of the Hogwarts Govenors, and then suffer through instructor reviews. He hated doing it, but unfortunately it was part of his particular role. He’d tried to pass the duty off on Harry after they were married, since he was my law then considered a Malfoy and could take on many of the family duties… Harry had made it quite clear he’d rather face down Voldemort again than sit through more Ministry meetings than he had to.

So, he’d suffered through them. Those found incompetent were let go. Those found still able to teach were retained. Of course both the Longbottoms stayed, as Draco had made it clear they were the only competent instructors as far as he was concerned. Though others were retained, as he had been in the minority of the vote.

The conversation drifted to their children. Mycroft and Greg’s house remodeling. Lily’s Quiddich world tour with the Holyhead Harpies as their team healer… And then…

“Was it just me,” Harry said, sipping his wine as he laid his fork across his empty plate. “Or did Severus look a bit…”

“Hmm…” Draco said, dropping his napkin on the table beside his plate. “Well, John does keep him better than he used to keep himself.”

“No, Dray, I mean… Didn’t he seem a little… glowy?”

“Glowy, love? Really… 114 years and the best adjective you can find is… _glowy_.” Draco sighed, but his tone was goodnatured teasing. “Were you raised in a barn by pigs, Potter?”

“No. Just a broom closet with muggles,” he replied, having learned long ago to turn his less pleasant memories into heavy sarcasm. “But you know what I mean. He’s got… He hasn’t looked like that since…”

Draco stared across the table at him and frowned. “Glowy,” he said firmly. “Oh Salazar… He isn’t?… Do you think?”

Harry hummed. “Not showing yet, so it must be rather early on,” he replied.

Draco looked a little mortified. Not that he didn’t love his grandchildren, he really did. For one, they were likely to be his only grandchildren. And for another thing they were indeed quite adorable no matter how much be protested the fact. But… “Oh god. There’s going to be more of him, aren’t there?” he bemoaned.

The former Gryffindor smiled. “Oh I’m afraid so.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. Among the lesser known talents of Harry Potter that he had learned over their long years together, pinpointing pregnancies happened to be one of them. Draco didn’t know how he did it, but after their godson Teddy’s wife had given birth to not one, not two, but a quintet after Harry had specifically told the woman to buy three more sets of everything she’d already purchased… He didn’t doubt that bizzare talent.

“How? How do you know these things?”

Harry shrugged. “Magic?” he asked, just as confused at how he did this as everyone else was. “Don’t worry. I think it’s only one this time.”

“We’re getting too old for this, you know,” Draco muttered. Harry just kept smiling as he waited for the house elves to bring their dessert and refill his wine. Oh, he was going to have so much fun teasing everyone about this one… Especially Draco and their son-in-law.

**o0o**

Over the next week Sherlock decided to begin instructing the twins in mathematics. It was more so that he had something to do while John did all the legwork on their latest case. Though Sherlock was still perfectly capable of going out to crime scenes and doing what he always did, the moment he and John had been given the confirmation that they were indeed to be expecting a third child, John had all but ordered him to stay home.

Though, he couldn’t complain. They did have a close call when he’d been five months along with the twins. Sherlock had come out of it alright… but their suspect hadn’t exactly been in much shape to even remember his own name let alone the crimes he’d comitted after he’d attempted to kidnap a pregnant, emotionally unstable, and very hungry wizard.

It was for the world’s protection just as much as it was for his own that John had ordered him off doing the tedius work.

So, he spent his days picking subjects for his children to learn. He wanted them to be the smartest, the brightest, and the most knowledgable children to enter Hogwarts since he was a child. He’d started them early, after all. So now at age five they were able to perform fundamental algabra. Sometimes they were able to take a quick glance at an equation that John would spend hours staring at and solve it in just a few minutes.

Moments like that made Sherlock very, very proud.

So it was no surprise when John came in, tired and covered in mud, to see a whiteboard out and his children sitting with stacks of papers on the sofa, scribbling away on complicated math problems Sherlock had concocted for them.

“Keep working,” Sherlock had told them and with a swish of his flowy blue dressing gown, he turned and strode quickly to the door to take John’s coat. He held it at arm’s length before tossing it back out the door of the flat. “Did you find it? Exactly where I said it would be, wasn’t it? I knew it!”

John hadn’t said a word as he toed off his shoes, not wanting to track more mud through the flat than he had to. “Shower,” he muttered, and on his way, he grumbled something about tea.

Sherlock was busy texting Lestrade excitedly. When he crossed back to the whiteboard, he noticed the twins had stopped writing. A cursory glance at their papers and he nodded in approval and flipped the board around to show more equations. “Keep working,” he repeated as he threw himself into a chair and draped his legs over the side. His eyes were staring at his phone as if willing it to respond to what he had sent.

When it pinged, he read the text quickly. The information was spread out among Lestrade’s goons. Sherlock was reassured that Anderson was properly insulted, then reminded not to contaminate the evidence which unfortunately John had deemed far too dangerous for Sherlock to handle. Though… it was medical waste so he couldn’t exactly argue the point too hard.

Finally, John emerged from the bathroom in his sleep pants and his favorite, and nearly threadbare, green robe. “Tea?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes please,” Sherlock said. The twins echoed their father, then simultaneously chewed on the erasers of their pencils. Hudson tried to look at his sister’s paper, but Sherlock hissed at him. “Eyes on your own, Hudson,” he snapped.

The boy went back to work as quick as he could.

John sighed and made himself a cuppa tea. Then made some for Sherlock. And two small cups for the kids. He put an ice cube in each of their smaller cups, not wanting them to burn their mouths on it because they couldn’t wait for it to cool.

The evening was spent with John dozing in his chair, and Sherlock continuing the instruction of their children with the promise of a bedtime story if they behaved and made high scores on their papers.

Harriet got nearly every question right but two.

Hudson scored higher than his sister by getting all right but one.

So at bed time, they watched as Sherlock first put a very tired John to bed before getting them ready for their own.

After each child was bathed, he made sure they brushed their teeth. Each one had a glass of water before bed. He even gave them a few animal crackers, because Hudson had said he was hungry. And then led them upstairs to tuck them in.

“We did good! Story!”

“ _We did well_ ,” Sherlock corrected his daughter as he handed her the stuffed hedgehog.

“Sit on my bed tonight,” she insisted. He smiled at her, but Hudson was already pouting. She stuck her tongue out at him. “He sat with you last time.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “She’s right, Hudson.”

“But I did better than she did.”

“He does have a point…”

“No no. It’s not fair. You sat with him last time you told a story. You sit with me this time.” She gave him a Watson pout. Hudson gave his sister a Holmes glare.

Sherlock ended up sitting on Harriet’s bed because he couldn’t be bothered to move. But Hudson had insisted on climbing up out of his and sitting on their father’s other side with his penguin.

So after a brief game of _who told you what last_ , Sherlock picked up the story where his mother had left off. “Well, like your grandmother said, your aunt and uncle behaved themselves rather well the next few days. Your daddy met with my mummy in his study the next few evenings. This gave me the opportune time to do a little last minute gift shopping. I have never been adept at such things, and your daddy doesn’t care what I get him so long as it doesn’t actively explode when he opens the package. He has learned to love this about me. But at the time, I was worried about what he may want or expect of me,” Sherlock said. “Things had just gotten back to normal and it was our second Christmas together. Our first since I had returned from what that mean Mr. Moriarty did, so I am ashamed to say I needed a little help…”

* * *

“Lestrade.”

“What?” he said, looking up from his computer. He was boredly playing solitare. That much was obvious. “Not going to turn me into another-“

“No,” Sherlock said, unclasping his hands from behind his back to show that they were empty. “I find myself in a difficult situation.”

Lestrade raised his brow. “What?”

“I need your assistance in a matter of social convention.”

The DI rolled his eyes and looked back at his game. “Go ask John. I’m on vacation.”

“Ah,” Sherlock started. “That… would not be possible.”

“He tell you off again?”

“No. I must defer to your observations, inferior as they are, and your knowledge of personal tastes.”

That gained the inspector’s full attention. “You… Jesus, Sherlock. It’s the day before Christmas Eve and you want to go shopping?”

“Yes.”

“And why can’t you take John?”

“Aside from the fact he has no working knowledge of shops in the wizarding world, as well as his permanent distrust of chip and pin machines, it would not be productive to have his assistance today.”

Lestrade stared at him, then blinked and sighed heavily. “You mean you want me to tell you what to buy him, don’t you?”

Sherlock only blinked back at him, moving his hands behind his back again and wrapping his fingers around his wrist. “Indeed. Your input would be greatly appreciated in this matter.”

“Why, exactly, are you asking me and not anyone else? Like Mycroft?”

“I may tolerate my brother’s company, but that is for the sake of mummy. As for Lily she is volunteering at St. Mungos today, as she does every week. As I am purchasing items for John, father, and mummy, it would not be appropriate to have any of them along on this trip.”

“Just buy him a bloody jumper, Sherlock. Seriously, I have better things to do than go shopping with you on my vacation. Do you have any idea how much of a madhouse it’s going to be? Last minute shoppers like you ruin it for the rest of us.”

“I will buy you beer, and pay for whatever gifts you choose for my brother. And… I will compliment Donovan. In public.”

Lestrade eyed him in disbelief. He would have said yes even if he hadn’t added that bit about Donovan. But since he had… “And go one week without insulting Anderson.”

“No.”

“Five days.”

“Three,” Sherlock responded.

“Deal. I’ll get my coat,” Lestrade said, closing his game and then closing the computer with a smirk.

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode out of the room to wait in the parlour.

**o0o**

Sherlock and Lestrade had spent the day apparating (because Sherlock knew Lestrade wasn’t too fond of the travel method) to and from shopping centres. As promised Sherlock did pay for the gifts Lestrade had chosen for Mycroft. But ONLY those he chose for Mycroft.

In the end, Lestrade had only agreed not for the sake of getting out of paying, nor the prospect of watching Sherlock act civil to the two people who detested him most, but because Sherlock honestly was at a loss.

He’d been gone for three years, and he honestly had been unsure what to do. Social conventions dictated he buy John a gift. But he had been absent in the other man’s life for three years. He had noticed changes in John’s tastes since they’d started living together again.

Excessive observations had yielded minimal results, and though he was loathe to admit it, the inspector now knew more about John than Sherlock did. And it greatly annoyed him. But in the end, Lestrade had pointed him general directions of jumpers, jams, a kitten (Sherlock was adamant about the no pets rule in the flat), computer gadgets, and a phone.

So, in the end Sherlock bought him three new jumpers, a selection of expensive jams, no kitten, a new MacBook, and matching smartphones. (His justification of the second phone was that he needed a new one as well, and it made sense if he bought the set, stating John would be proud that he’d saved twenty-seven pounds by purchasing them together.)

Of course, he had bought token gifts for everyone else as well. A new quill for his father. The beer for Lestrade (which Lestrade claimed wasn’t a gift but a bribe. Sherlock told him to piss off and take it.) Mycroft would be receiving a lifetime membership to the Cake of the Month club (because Sherlock is just that cruel). Lily and Mummy would each be receiving three gifts from Sherlock. Lily would be receiving a new broom, a rather nice dress in Gryffindor colors, and a selection of fine teas. Harry would receive from his middle child a new coat, a wand holster, and a guide to 21st century pop culture references from the muggle world, as he seemed to be rather fond of reading through his daughter’s muggle magazines.

When they returned, Sherlock was quite pleased with himself. He’d wrapped each gift that needed wrapping meticulously and left them with all the others in the parlour. But not all. He held a few back, hiding them in his and John’s bedroom, not wanting to explain the muggle electronics to his wizarding parents.

**o0o**

Christmas Eve. Sherlock dreaded it.

It was spent in a flurry of excitement. The great dining hall that was used only on special occasions was opened and aired out. The adjacent drawing room was made as warm and as inviting as possible. Harry directed the house elves in arranging the decor as Lily ran to and fro to ensure orders were taken to the kitchens for the evening’s feast.

Draco, having been with Harry for the majority of their lives, knew the routine. He kept to his study and well out of the way. His sons and their house guests sequestered themselves in the family library. Sherlock and Mycroft agreed, for a change, that it was a very good idea to do so.

John and Lestrade spent their time playing wizard chess until they grew bored and made Mycroft transfigure a chair into a magical television set. At least they could watch crap telly until time to get freshen up for dinner.

**o0o**

John fidgeted with his shirt cuffs. Sherlock had told him to dress comfortably, but John’s idea of comfortable and Sherlock’s were two entirely different things. So he’d opted for a plain red dress shirt, which he was so very glad he’d packed at the last minute, and some dark grey slacks.

He stood alongside Sherlock and Lestrade, waiting for the guests to arrive. Mycroft was standing by the mantle, a drink in his hand as he conversed with Draco, Harry, and Lily. Sherlock was obviously bored, and spent the moments inspecting his fingernails as if they were the most important things he’d ever seen.

John startled at the first pop, which was followed by another. And another. Suddenly the room was filled with bodies and voices. Sherlock leaned forward to speak into John’s ear over the din of their arriving guests. “Ron and Hermione Weasley,” he said. “Teddy Lupin over in the corner.”

When a couple of younger wizards arrived through the fireplace Lestrade’s face brightened. “Verner! Ly! Reggie!” he exclaimed and went to greet them.

“Three of the four Hawthorne brothers. Aurors specializing in black market potions.” John looked at him and tutted.

“I’ll bet you had a few run ins with the likes of them.”

“Only a few,” Sherlock responded in mock hurt as more guests arrived. With each one, Sherlock quietly told John who they were. What they did if he knew. And their connection to his family. John found his commentary quite interresting. Most only gave the muggle doctor and the consulting detective a brief hello or a nod out of politeness. John had the feeling they really wanted to keep a good distance between themselves and Sherlock. He really didn’t blame them.

Though anyone with the surname Weasley seemed to take it upon themselves to try and draw John out into conversation about anything muggle. Sherlock explained that, as it had been mentioned in those dreadful books, the patriarch of the Weasley clan, Arthur, had loved muggles. Had worked in one of the muggle departments at the ministry, and had taught his children to respect and accept them as something of a curiosity.

Sherlock could tell John didn’t know whether he should feel flattered or confused. The detective had just launched into an explanation of Charlie Weasley’s work with dragons and his spouse’s work as an auror when they were approached by the dreamy old woman John had been introduced to just days before.

“Hello again,” Luna said with a bright smile that betrayed her years.

John offered his hand to her husband, who shook it happily. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom,” John said as Sherlock moved a bit closer, if that were even possible. If Sherlock noticed his slight discomfort, he simply ignored it. Or rather, seemed to ignore it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

Sherlock made a sort of huffing noise. “You’ve met them once already. How can you possibly meet them a second time, John.”

“I was being polite. Unlike some people, I paid attention when my mother taught me manners.”

Sherlock huffed again, but it was different. It seemed to John as if it were almost… playful. Which was highly unusual.

The pair of Hogwarts instructors chuckled softly. Neville excused himself, wanting to speak with Draco on a matter of ministry business. His wife remained behind, looking over the Sherlock and John in amusement. “Did you know,” she started out of the blue. “When this cat was just a kitten he wanted to be a pirate?”

Sherlock choked on air. John snickered. “Oh yes. I’d heard about that.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock snapped.

“Oh yes,” she said. “He and my daughters would spend the summers in little boats on the lake firing toy canons at one another. My girls were Captain Sunshine and Captain Starbeam. But our kitten never called himself a captain.”

“Really?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. This was an embarrassing story just waiting to happen. And the doctor wasn’t going to pass up the chance to hear it and, if he was lucky, use it as blackmail later on.

She gave Sherlock a knowing smile. “Oh yes. Severus used to call himself First Mate Sherlock, the cleverest pirate of them all.”

John couldn’t help but giggle, at last knowing where the name had come from. Luna Longbottom continued as Sherlock started to fidget. “We used to ask him why he wasn’t a captain like his godsisters and you know what he said? He said his ship already had a captain, and his captain was a hedgehog.”

John looked at him now, giving him a hard stare as if to demand an explanation. Sherlock gave him none. Turning his attention back to Mrs. Longbottom, John opened his mouth to ask something, but never got the chance as he heard Draco announce that everyone was to move towards the great dining hall. The last of the guests had arrived and the feast was about to begin.

Sherlock had never been more grateful to hear his father’s voice in his life.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Once everyone had been seated, John and Sherlock sandwiched between Amelia Weasley-Hawthorne to John’s right and Teddy Lupin to Sherlock’s left, Draco Malfoy stood and gave a few words. The general gist was that everyone should have a happy Christmas. That it was good to see their friends and families, and to welcome anyone who had never attended one of Harry’s holiday dinners before.

Then he turned everyone’s attention to Harry, who had also been standing at the opposite end of the very long table. Sherlock leaned in and whispered to John, who somehow managed to will his face into submission and not smile or giggle as Harry laid down the rules for the benefit of those who had never been at his table.

But John couldn’t hold out much longer, and when Harry mentioned there would be no politics nor ministry business discussed at dinner, John let out a choked giggle. It earned him a few puzzled looks from the other dinner guests, and a hard glare from Mycroft.

Sherlock was smug. “My apologies,” he said, most certianly not meaning it. “I was just explaining to John why various rules were created.” He looked pointedly at his brother as John reached for his glass to take a quick sip in an attempt to cover his embarassment.

Harry coughed, drawing everyone’s attention back to him as Teddy leaned in to whisper, “What did you tell the poor lad, Sherlock?”

“That the last time I attended, my idiot brother had let word slip of a ministry raid and those targeted replaced all of their deadly poisons with jars of red currant jam and apple balm.”

Beside Mycroft, Lestrade snickered. “When was that now?… Four, five years back?” He turned to Mycroft, who was doing quite a good job of managing his temper as some of the other guests laughed. John just gave up and joined in. Lestrade continued. “Is that why you had that assistant of yours insist I spring a drugs bust on your brother?”

Mycroft cleared his throat but was about to speak. Harry allowed himself a small chuckle as Draco looked on in silent amusement. “Yes. That is exactly why I’ve added that rule,” Harry said, reaching down to pat his eldest on the shoulder, stopping the man from reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. “Don’t hex your brother at the table, Scorpius. It’s bad manners.”

Sherlock and John, along with Teddy Lupin and the Longbottom children burst into a second round of laughter. Even John was surprised at how loud Sherlock’s laughs had become. When it started to settle down just a little, John spoke up again, loud enough for only those closest to the center of the long table could hear. “Sherlock,” he said. “We can’t giggle, it’s a family dinner.”

The detective gave him a knowing look and the two shared a snicker at their private joke before schooling their features again. “Sorry,” John apologised loudly. “Sorry. Please, do go on.”

A few more soft laughs later and they were all enjoying a rather splendid meal.

Sherlock spent most of it observing, as he always did. His mind storing information away for later as people chattered around him. But he kept a careful watch on John. Listening to his conversations with those around them. He had food on his plate, but wasn’t particularly interrested in it.

Teddy nudged him to get his attention.

“Hmm?”

“I think,” his godsibling said in a conspiritorial tone. “Izzy is giving John rather rude looks.” He nodded down towards Draco’s end of the table.

Sherlock subtly turned his head to have a look himself and true enough, the woman sitting beside his sister at Draco’s side was glaring down the table at them. Smiling wickedly, he hatched a plan. And, he thought, it would match well with the not-quite lie that he simply hadn’t cleared up with his family just yet. So, picking up his fork he reached over John’s arm and plucked a small piece of roasted turkey off his plate and stuffed it quickly into his mouth.

Teddy covered his mouth and looked away to keep from laughing. On the other side of John, Amelia gave a funny look, a bit confused at what she had just watched happen as John turned to Sherlock, ready to object. He was stopped when a piece of some sort of sweet bread was shoved into his mouth.

“Try this,” Sherlock said simply, licking a bit of gravy from his lip that had dribbled from the stolen turkey when he’d eaten it.

Down the table, Isolde Thorton’s glare could have possibly killed lesser men. Sherlock found it most amusing as John spluttered and the Longbottom sisters chuckled at what they perceived as an awkward affectionate display.

Having no choice but to eat the blasted piece of bread, John chewed it and swallowed before chastising his flatmate. “You’ve got your own bloody plate.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said evenly. “However, I wanted to try the turkey with a small amount of gravy.”

“There’s the boat. You pick it up and pour it on.”

“Had I done so, I would have regretted the action, as from the sample I chose-“

“Stole,” John said.

“I learned that I much prefer plain.”

John sighed. “And why did you shove food in my mouth?”

Sherlock blinked at him as if what he’d done had been the most normal thing in the world to do. For all John knew, it could have been in the world according to Sherlock bloody Holmes. “I felt it appropriate compensation.” With that, he stole one small glance past John, back down the table to Isolde and allowed himself a small smile before picking his fork back up and playing with the food on his plate.

Teddy did an amazing job of not laughing like a loon at them as he allowed himself to get pulled into a rousing conversation about the numerous applications of coffee beans.

Throughout the remainder of the meal, and well into dessert, Sherlock would steal food from John’s plate. Rather than request a refill of his drink, he would take John’s. Though the doctor was very annoyed, it was mixed with relief. At least Sherlock was eating and drinking. He also seemed to be a little relaxed. More than he had been since they’d arrived. He was smiling, though most of the time they were the tight forced smiles. But when he looked at John, the least significant person in the entire room… they’d soften just a touch and for the briefest of moments the smile would reach his ashen eyes before fading back again as he would engage those nearby.

**o0o**

After dessert many of the guests moved to the drawing room. Two of the four Hawthorne brothers remained in the dining hall, arguing with Angelica Boot and Isolde Thorton over a minor dark wizard uprising in Australia.

Sherlock kept to himself across the room, sipping from the last of his wine as he watched John back at the table, engaged in what must have been a rather thrilling conversation with Josephine Platt and the Weasley cousins.

The detective was leaning against the marble mantle, one hand in his pocket and the other holding the stem of his glass when Teddy returned from the drawing room. He looked around a moment before spotting his godsibling and aproached with a tight, forced smile.

“If Verner tries to snog me one more time, I’ll hex his lips off.”

“Trouble, cousin?” Sherlock asked. “You know the Hawthorne’s cannot hold their drink.”

“I mean it, I’ll hex his lips right off that smug face of his. He’s worse than that Thorton prat.”

Sherlock raised a brow, looking past him to the woman mentioned. Even from here he could see she was still glaring at John. And Watson seemed absolutely oblivious to her attention. “Yes. I can see where that would be a problem. If I recall, she was rather… persistent.”

Teddy took his glass and finished it off with a low, frustrated growl. Sherlock gave him a challenging glare before he heard John’s laughter from the table. “It seems the girls are quite taken with the muggle,” Teddy said, trying to get his mind away from that annoying git in the drawing room. “Careful. I think Platt may be on the prowl again.”

“Yes. She’s recently separated from her husband, a squib. Judging by the amount of make-up she’s charmed on, she’s hiding the wrinkles brought on by youth potion addiction. One hip is prominently lower than the other, showing that she’s carried more than one child on her hip regularly. Though I am thirteen years her senior she’s going gray. I would say her genetics favor premature graying, however she is from a very powerful pureblood family. The magic is very strong, which would put off her natural aging process significantly. She shouldn’t even begin to show in her fifties until she’s oh… ninety at the earliest,” Sherlock rattled off. “So, she’s looking for a quick lay to forget about her miserable life stuck with her children, all of whom were born relatively close together and are the primary reason for her gray and aged appearance. Presented with the opportunity to perhaps draw a muggle to her bed would really put her squib husband out of joint and severely crush his ego, not that he has much of one.”

Teddy sighed and shook his head. “You don’t switch off, do you.”

“Never. My brain is **always** at work.”

“And you’re not worried?” Teddy asked, nodding towards John and the women grouped around him. “I mean, I know how the nymph-mate setup works and all but-“

“ **That** has no bearing on the fact John will not be getting on with anyone tonight.” His voice was hard, but not cold. Not completely. Teddy could hear the smouldering anger behind them. Embers of sudden rage.

“Sorry,” Teddy said, having forgotten how touchy his godsibling really was about his particular… problem. He waited until Sherlock had calmed back down, the only visible sign of his change in mood had been the clenching of his jaw. Subtle, but if you hadn’t known the man as a child, you wouldn’t even know he did it. “Really.”

“Would you like to see something… amusing?” Sherlock asked, raising a brow as another round of laughter rose up from John and the ladies. Teddy raised his own brow in challenge.

“Oh?…”

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, holding it up for the other man to see. “As you have no doubt noticed, Josephine Platt now has her hand in the small of John’s back. She has progressively gotten closer and closer, and John has done nothing to discourage the attention and invasion of his personal space. He finds her attractive. Has pieced together that she is a sure thing.”

Teddy nodded, unsure where this was going.

“Watch.” He said, tapping the keys on his phone and schooling his features. Then, as he pocketed his phone, across the room John’s text alert went off.

Teddy watched as he frowned and fumbled with his pocket. He excused himself from the conversation and Teddy watched as John checked a similar muggle device to Sherlock’s. The doctor turned his head to stare questioningly at Sherlock a moment. Sherlock gave a small nod. “Excuse me cousin,” Sherlock said, shoving his hands into his pockets and heading towards not the drawing room but towards the hall.

And when Sherlock disappeared from view, Teddy watched in amazement as John politely ended his conversation with the four ladies and followed out the same door.

Sherlock stopped walking only when he reached the end of the hall just before it rounded the corner, and smiled inwardly when he heard John’s footsteps echoing behind him. When he deemed John close enough, he turned and stood with his hands behind his back. “Oh, I hadn’t expected you to follow.”

“You text me complaining you’re bored and leave without throwing a tantrum. Of course I’m going to follow you. Calm boredom is always a sign that you’re planning some crazy experiment that’ll blow up the street. Or lock yourself in a room and begin a month long spiral of self loathing and self destruction.”

Sherlock raised a brow as John came closer, looking increasingly worried. “You’re not going to lock yourself in our room, are you?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“You’re not going to blow up anything?”

Sherlock shook his head, not showing his amusement at the line of questioning.

“Well, good. That’s,” John said, licking his lips. “Good. I’ll just head back then, shall I?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh. “She’s married, but separated. Minimum of seven children. You’ve been targeted for revenge coitus and while her husband is a squib and has no magical ability, his family is extremely old and extremely powerful. It would not do well to get on the wrong side of very dark wizards,” he said, rocking on the balls of his feet.

John gave him a heated glare. “Seriously? It’s Christmas Eve, Sherlock. Don’t spoil it.”

“Trust me, John. You don’t want to get tangled up with… these sort,” he replied with a hint of disdain.

John sighed. “I live with you. I already _am_ tangled up with these sort.”

“Regardless, I’m-“

And that’s when the walls started to crack. Voices raised in shouts and shrieks. Sherlock reached into his jacket and pulled out his wand. The doors at the end of the hall burst open as Rose Morgan (a Weasley) ushered her cousins out of the dining hall.

Sherlock’s heart beat faster as he instinctively moved to place himself between them and John, wand clutched tightly in his hand. Rose guided others into the hall, and he saw Lestrade among them. Teddy Lupin remained at the doors, and beyond him he saw the sweeping black smoke. John was shouting behind him as the ladies came closer. Sherlock turned and grabbed him by the arm, catching him by surprise. “John, take them to the library. The wards are strongest there. You will have the greatest protection.”

“Right,” John replied, turning but stopped when Sherlock didn’t let him go. He was pulled back into his flatmate’s arms and before he realized what was happening, he was staring up into his eyes with lips smashed against his, threatening to devour him alive.

Sherlock knew it wasn’t a good idea. It was a positively bad idea. Even as he felt the ripple of a curse whiz by them. Heard the crackle of electricity. Then he shoved John away. “Go!” he growled as he turned, not wanting to see the look on his face as he pushed his way back towards the dining hall and towards the danger.

* * *

Harriet was leaning forward with her eyes wide, clinging to her stuffed hedgehog and holding her breath. Her brother was equally enthralled by their father’s story.

“…And that’s where we end tonight.”

“You can’t leave it there!” Harriet whined. “You can’t!”

“Yeah! That was your and daddy’s first kissy face ever!”

Their father smiled smugly. “Yes. But it’s late, and I’ve kept you two up well past your bed time. Daddy will be furious with me if I keep you up longer.”

They made a sort of high pitched whining sound as Sherlock got to his feet. “Come on, Hudson. Back to bed with you.”

With a huff of annoyance, Hudson climbed off his sister’s bed and allowed himself to be tucked back into his own. After making sure they weren’t going to be getting back up, Sherlock kissed each one on the top of their head and turned out the light.

Once he was back downstairs he looked around at the mess left from the day and sighed. Not even bothering to clean it up he fixed himself a snack. He wasn’t really hungry, and didn’t particularlly want to eat. But he knew if he didn’t then John would be on his case about it.

So he had himself a small bowl of ice cream, sprinkled curry powder over the top and seated himself at John’s computer (because his was in the bedroom). He ate as he checked his mail, then the website. Then John’s blog, which he still kept quite regularly.

Not feeling tired two hours later he dropped his bowl in the sink and went to bed, crawling under the blankets and staring up at the ceiling. He hated eating when he wasn’t hungry. He hated sleeping when he wasn’t tired. And he hated staying home when there were very interresting cases to solve and criminals to chase.

In his sleep, John threw an arm across his husband’s middle and pulled him closer.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. “Pregnancy is inconvenient,” he muttered to himself, reaching blindly in the dark for his book on the bedside table. He opened it and thumbed the switch on the book light fixed to the top of the back cover. At least he could catch up on his reading.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Sherlock had eventually fallen asleep with his book open across his chest.

John had gotten up early and left a note for Sherlock, having spoken with Lestrade about the fruits of his hard and muddy labour the day before. It also told Sherlock, should he wake up at some point, that he’d taken the twins to the park, and then they’d go the grocery.

But, as London weather often did the bright sunny day turned overcast and threatened rain. So they didn’t spend long at the park.

Walking down the aisle with a child on either side of his cart, John concentrated on trying to find the right brand of tea, and reminded himself to get more curry powder. He was reading boxes of tea when he felt a tug on the bottom of his jumper. Looking down Harriet looked up at him and pointed to the end of the aisle. Where a woman was trying to get his attention.

Well… This was awkward.

The woman pushed her cart closer with a bright smile. “John Watson!” she exclaimed when she was close enough.

“S- Sarah?” His voice was an almost squeak. Hudson and his sister stared at the woman curiously. John handed them each a box of tea. “Put this in the cart and then fetch some juice. Four bottles. Two each, got that.”

They nodded silently, watching the woman closely before heading further down the aisle. “And stay where I can see you!” John called after them.

“Oh, they’re so adorable,” she said. “My god, how long’s it been?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you since after the Richard Brook scandal…”

“Uh… yeah,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his children were still there and behaving themselves. Uncomfortable having his back to them, he turned enough to be able to watch them and still speak to Sarah at the same time. “Well, been busy, you know.”

“Are you still practicing medicine?”

“Sort of,” he said, easing up just a bit. “Mostly stomach aches and runny noses these days. The occasional consultation at a crime scene when I’ve got free time.”

She smiled. “Still hanging about with Sherlock then,” Sarah said. “For what it’s worth, I never believed a word of it. Everyone at the surgery told me I was daft, but you don’t get kidnapped by the Tong and rescued by someone that brilliant without being a believer.”

John smiled tightly, giving a curt nod as his children came back to the cart, each one with a different flavor of juice in each hand. He sighed. “No no. You know we can’t have strawberry kiwi in the house.”

Harriet gave him a pout as he took the apple juice from her other hand. “Go on now. Pick out another. And nothing with kiwi.”

Dragging her heels, she turned and did as she was told. Hudson proudly presented his bottles of crangrape and acai berry. When Harriet returned she had another bottle of apple. John nodded and took it from her, putting it in the cart.

The two of them stood behind the cart silently, watching the strange woman with keen eyes. “Don’t mind them,” John said. “They aren’t particularly fond of strangers. Most of the time.”

Sarah smiled and leaned down some. “Hi there, I’m Sarah,” she said cheerfully. “I’m an old friend of your daddy’s.”

“Don’t do that,” Harriet said, narrowing her eyes even more.

“Do what?”

“You’re talking to us like we don’t understand you. That sudden high pitch in your voice is patronizing. We are not stupid.” Hudson said calmly, keeping his eyes on her. “As a matter of fact, I dare say we may even be more intelligent than you.”

“Well, those are some rather big words-“

“Oh god,” John muttered, covering his face in embarrassment as Hudson glowered at the woman now.

“Excuse me?” Harriet said for her brother. “Of course they are big words. We begin each day, with the exception of shopping day and days spent with our uncles, with an intensive language lesson.”

Sarah stared at them, then looked at John, unsure of what exactly to say to that. “I… Sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“Of course you didn’t. You’re an idiot. Clearly you only acknowledged us because you noticed daddy’s subconscious body language, indicating his discomfort at this particular situation. You apparently have not seen him for a minimum of five years, as that is how long ago we were born and you have no knowledge of us. By the clear disappointment on your face you see that daddy is wearing a wedding band, therefore you have not seen him for approximately six to seven years. Possibly a short while before that. Before spotting the ring, you had hoped that you could ask him for a drink, possibly a coffee first as it would seem the less aggressive approach. You would then suggest meeting to catch up on all of the time you had been apart.” Hudson continued to glower at her challengingly, holding his head high and his left brow raised as if to dare her to question him. He continued smugly. “However, the cut of your shirt suggests that you had left your home this morning intending to meet with a boyfriend significantly younger than yourself, as a woman of your age would never wear such a low-cut top with such a short skirt and that shade of hose. You’ve been stood up, as I can see from the red around your eyes and the faint smear of eyeliner in the corner of your eye. You reapplied it in the car before coming inside to fetch…” He peered over towards her cart. “A pint of Chunky Monkey, a bag of Snickers bars, and according to the yellow nicotine stains on the fingers of your ring hand, and the slight discoloration where your own wedding band normally sits, a pack of cigarettes.” He sniffed the air quickly. “Menthol.”

Harriet stood gaping at her brother, eyes wide as Sarah’s face went steadily pale. The woman’s throat was dry as she tried to find her voice. She was embarrassed and horrified at the same time. But it didn’t matter because John had heard enough. **“Hudson Watson-Holmes!”** he snapped angrily. “You apologize to Sarah this instant!”

“Why?” he asked, blinking at his dad as if he’d done nothing wrong. “She has no interest in Harriet and I and only greeted us because it was the polite social convention called for in this awkward situation. She obviously wants to ask you out for coffee now that she has come across you. And father would be very cross with Mrs. Sarah if he knew she was trying to get you to go on a date with her. Especially as you are both married. Though you more happily than she.”

“That’s no reason to embarrass her in public!” John turned to her, his face red with both anger and embarrassment as other shoppers started taking notice of the scene in the drinks aisle. “Sarah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t… He doesn’t realize-“

“Oh, I think he _does_ realize what he’s doing,” she snapped angrily then turned her attention to John. “Good seeing you,” she nearly spat, jerking her cart around and walking quickly back the way she’d come.

Hudson watched her go with a smug look of satisfaction.

“Hands on the bloody cart. Both of you.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Harriet whined, glaring at her twin.

Hudson was still smirking as he put his hand on his side of the cart.

Later, when Sherlock asked why they’d returned without milk but with nineteen different types of breakfast tea and a smushed loaf of bread, all John could get out was _Hudson, deducing, bloody hell,_ and _“Get your own damn milk, Sherlock_!”

When questioned by his father later, Hudson repeated everything to Sherlock, who snuck him a reward for scaring off his daddy’s ex-girlfriend and making sure she didn’t try to steal him away. Harriet was also given a reward for not interrupting her brother’s brilliant deduction work and defense of his family honor.

Unfortunately, their trip to the store had put John in such a bad mood that he’d forbidden Sherlock from reading or telling them any form of bed time story until further notice.

**o0o**

For the next few days John did what Sherlock liked to call _angry baking_. Meaning that every time he was angry, he baked a cake. Or muffins. Or bread. Or anything that needed a lot of stirring or kneeding. It was a habit he’d started shortly after the twins were born, believing it was a much more constructive way to deal with his frustration and anger than following Sherlock’s example and shooting the walls.

The twins really couldn’t complain because Hudson’s rude deductions had caused John to make them many, many sweets. Sherlock couldn’t complain because an angry John was without a doubt his favorite John to have in the bedroom.

On the fourth day of angry baking, Sherlock had convinced Hudson to apologize for his behavior, despite the fact Sherlock and he both felt the boy hadn’t done anything wrong. That evening Sherlock had cleared his experiments off the table and with the twins’ help he moved all of it downstairs to 221A. And as the small family sat down to eat that evening at the kitchen table and not in the sitting room in front of the telly, Sherlock announced that all of his experiments would be done downstairs from that day on. He didn’t explain why and John was appeased by the gesture, as they now had a use for the extra empty flat.

After dinner Sherlock even offered to do the washing up, but the twins commanded that he sit with them for tv time. A few hours passed and John announced it was time for bed. Reluctantly the twins took their turns bathing. Then together they brushed their teeth (with much elbow shoving in front of the mirror) and let themselves be tucked in. They hadn’t said anything about a story, and after they’d been tucked in were surprised when John sat down on the end of Harriet’s and looked at them both.

“So where are we then?”

Hudson glanced over to his sister as their father stepped into the bedroom with a very brief smile on his face. “I believe,” Sherlock said, sitting down at the end of Hudson’s bed. “That we left off with mummy’s feast. Rather… what happened after.”

“Oh? How far after?”

Sherlock schooled his features, not giving anything away. Harriet was the one to blurt it out. “Father snogged you!”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. “You can’t tell them _that_.”

“What?” he replied, feigning innocence. “I didn’t go into detail. Only that it happened and the circumstances under which the event took place. I was, loathe to admit, afraid. I had just spent three years away and things had finally gone back to some semblance of normal. Considering the fact that my parents’ home was under attack, I believe it was a logical act at the time.”

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. “So then,” he said. “That’s where you left off I assume?”

Sherlock nodded. So, John settled in. It took him no time at all to remember that night, and he opened his mouth to begin.

“So, the house was under attack. Guests spilling into the hallway…”

* * *

Once again, Sherlock had summoned him from a rather promising situation with a woman he’d just met. He’d been having quite a nice time, too. He wouldn’t have bothered, had Sherlock been so terribly… calm about it. It was unsettling.

They’d talked a bit, and he was ready to go back to the dining hall but when he looked past Sherlock to the wall he watched as a large crack snaked its way down. Seconds later he heard the shouts and screams. Sherlock pulled out his wand and pushed John to stand behind him as Rose Morgan, a Weasley if John recalled, was sending people out into the hall towards them. He could see Lestrade among the frightened witches and wizards heading towards them. Another remained at the doors to cover their escape.

John felt Sherlock grab his arm with his free hand, and turning to him in surprise. “John, take them to the library. The wards are strongest there. You will have the greatest protection.”

John nodded, swallowing hard. “Right,” he replied, turning to go help evacuate the other guests, but Sherlock pulled him back into his arms. He wanted to ask what was going on but it seemed like his brain went into a short circuit. He was looking up into Sherlock’s eyes, filled with a silent fear he hadn’t seen since that night Moriarty had John covered in semtex at the pool. Not since John had essentially offered his own life if it meant taking the criminal down with him to save Sherlock.

He didn’t have time to think. No time to deduce what that look could mean as his mouth was covered and his lips seized by the other man. That… That was when he felt his heart jump and his breath catch in his throat. It was quick, and confusing and utterly mad. _And there just wasn’t any time._

As quickly as it had happened, John was shoved away, Sherlock’s voice the only thing he could hear above the shouts and the sound of electric death as spells whizzed past and parts of the walls exploded. **“Go!”** He tore his eyes away only when Sherlock turned his back to fight his way back to the dining hall.

“John!” he heard a woman cry out. He shook his head and started to back up then turned and ducked when a chunk of wall exploded nearby.

“Library!” he called out. “Sherlock said the library!”

“Everyone!” the woman’s voice called again. He could tell it was Lily now. No longer the happy go lucky mediwitch. No, that was cast off like the cloaks she wore to Diagon Alley. This was a seemingly different woman now who guided the guests, all who had wands had them out and ready as they all ran through the manor.

John was bustled toward the center of the group where he once again laid eyes on Lestrade. They were muggles. Helpless, vulnerable in this strange world of Sherlock and Mycroft’s.

Ahead of them they saw the green flashes, and a man’s voice boomed. “Hurry!” he called out before casting a _stupefy_. He remained outside while John and the others were forced into the library. Lily and Rose slammed the doors shut, casting a locking charm. Across the large room John could hear the same shouted words at the other entrances.

Voices chattered around him as he sought out Lestrade.

“Sherlock?” the inspector had asked him when they’d found one another near the fireplace. John shook his head.

“Mycroft?” he asked.

The inspector was pale, about to ask something else when all attention was turned to Lily, standing on a table near the center of the room with her wand out. She called for silence. When it was given, she said a cold voice, that same sort of coldness Lestrade and John had become accustomed to from her brothers. That same coldness they learned the boys had picked up from their father.

“Who the bloody hell let a Death Eater into my home?” her voice boomed as the doors and walls shook. Books fell from the shelves lining the walls. The ceiling fixtures shook as dust fell from above.

**o0o**

_“Stupefy!”_ Sherlock shouted angrily as he backed up into Teddy Lupin who was throwing so many _expelliarmus_ es it was hard to keep track of them all. Nearby three of the Hawthorne brothers were holding their own against a trio of snaggle toothed witches.

Sherlock focused on the man bearing down on him and his elder godsibling, shouting a stunning curse that the man easily blocked. _“Sectumsempra!”_ he snapped, throwing the curse with as much force as he could muster. The dark wizard’s clothes shredded, his flesh following as Sherlock turned his attention to another.

“Where do they keep coming from?” Teddy shouted, throwing up a shield around them. Sherlock looked around. Already he could see guests among the victims. Rupert Wingrave. One of the Longbottom sisters was now a widow. He kept sweeping his gaze around the room. He knew the protections on this house better than anyone. He had often spent his time pointing out the weaknesses in them, and watching his parents correct and strengthen them. He’d committed the information to the hard disk of his memory long, long ago.

“Something brought into the house!” he shouted. “With one of the guests!”

“Sabotage?”

“Only explanation!” he shouted. “We have to get to the parlour!”

Teddy shook his head, keeping a keen eye out and blocking anything that came near. “They’re all concentrated **here** , Sherlock! We leave, then the library-“

“It’s our only option,” Sherlock snapped, scanning the room again. Teddy nodded, calling to the Hawthorne brothers who’d managed to take out two of their three pests.

“Cover the doors!” Teddy shouted before Sherlock took him by the arm and ran back into the hall.

Hearing fighting up by the library doors, Sherlock pulled Teddy into a side room. “Shortcut,” he explained as they passed through Draco’s study, then beyond into a little used room that Sherlock still had no idea what it was actually for. Aiming his wand at a mirror, he cast a small blasting curse, revealing a hidden passage. “This way.” Sherlock strode over the broken glass and stepped into the blackness beyond.

 _“Lumos,”_ Teddy said as he emerged on the other side in another corridor. Slightly narrower than most in the Manor. “Where the hell…”

“Hidden passage,” Sherlock explained, looking both ways before running down the direction to his right. “Part of the original building. It was used during the war to hide Voldemort’s men when the Ministry came calling.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

“Dead end, mate,” Teddy said, gasping for breath. Sherlock raised his wand as they neared the end of the passage _. “Bombarda,”_ he said, blowing a hole into the wall. He jumped out first, casting a protection shield instantly to block the hexes cast his way as Teddy came out of the hole behind him into the parlour.

Sherlock’s eyes were hard as he looked beyond his shield to the woman holding the gift box. When had she left the dining hall?… “Isolde Thorton,” he growled.

He heard something else… someone else.

 _“Confundus!”_ Teddy shouted before Sherlock could stop him.

But it was too late. The spell backfired, sending Teddy back into the hole in the parlour wall.

Sherlock couldn’t lower his shield to disarm the woman standing behind Isolde without risking getting hit with backlash himself. And he certainly couldn’t push too hard… He couldn’t risk using wandless magic with no way of focusing it, of controlling it. His only alternative was to… attempt to negotiate. To stall for time.

“Pansy Parkinson,” he said and the woman in black robes smiled behind his own former arranged fiancé. “Take your associates and leave. These people have nothing to do with this.” He licked his lips, trying his hardest to remain calm. His heart hadn’t been beating so hard and so furiously since the rooftop. Since The Fall…

It all came back to then… “It’s me you want. Leave the rest and take me.”

The woman glared, and with a wave of her hand Isolde was forced to step aside. Sherlock watched her, taking in every scrap of evidence he could. His mind soaking up the dead look in her eyes. The rigid way she stood and the stiff hold on the box as now the searing cold of Dementors flew up out of it in a flurry of black and sorrow. “We’ve gone beyond that, Severus. I’m here for your mate.”

Behind him he could hear Teddy as he started to come to.

“If I can’t have him, I’ll kill everyone here. Your family-“

“Despise them all,” Sherlock interrupted her. “I suggest you start with my brother first.”

“Your friends.”

“Family friends. None of them mine.”

Her pale face cracked as her lips pulled into a cruel smirk. “My Lady will have her revenge, Severus. Your mate’s life to pay for both of her’s!” She raised her wand as Teddy pulled himself back to his feet, gripping the exposed bit of wall tightly.

He had no choice. Not with Dementors on the loose as well… It was either break the _Imperius_ curse on Isolde Thorton, leaving himself exposed to Parkinson’s attack, destroy the blasted two-way box in her hands and again leave himself open… or ignore her completely and attack Parkinson, the last of the death eaters, directly, leaving himself open to whatever came out of that box from hell.

“Teddy, when I open my mouth, get down,” he said, hoping his godsibling had heard him. Then, with as much power as he could muster in his voice, he shouted. _“Expulso Maxima!”_

**o0o**

John was pacing. Just… pacing. He couldn’t do much else as the witches and wizards locked in there with him were on edge. Waiting with wands out and for the doors to crash in. Waiting for another fight to begin. He was a soldier, and a doctor. He wasn’t supposed to sit back on his haunches and just… _**wait**_.

Finally he kicked one of the chairs in frustration before throwing himself into another. He rubbed at his wrist through his cuff, feeling the cold metal chaffing at his skin. He’d not thought about it since Sherlock slapped it on him. He hadn’t noticed it but maybe once or twice since. Remembering what he’d been told it was for, he hadn’t thought it important to have it removed until they left this place anyway.

But now he rubbed at it, because it was either that or thrashing the furniture.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced up into the face of Lily. “Are you alright?” she asked him, summoning the chair across from him, the one he’d kicked, closer to her.

“It isn’t right,” he said, looking at her. “Hiding in here…”

She nodded, understanding how he felt. Though born after the last great wizarding war, she was the child of its greatest hero. She was a warrior from the cradle. And she didn’t like this anymore than he did. “He’ll be alright,” she said. “If anything, they’ll run away screaming when he starts to deduce them to death.”

John wanted to smile… He wanted to laugh, and could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head doing just that. Deducing the dark wizards to death. But… he couldn’t.

Lily sat, looking at him and keeping a hand on his arm. “Look at me,” she said. He just stared at her hand. “My brother is brilliant. He was top of his class at Hogwarts. And according to your stories, he’s outsmarted the planet’s most evil, psychotic criminal mastermind. This… This is just a walk in the park for Sev.”

“I can’t just sit here.”

“There’s nothing you can do out there. You’re a muggle. You don’t even have a muggle weapon. Here you’re safe. And knowing you’re in here, he can do what needs to be done. That’s what matters,” she said, letting her hand slide down his arm to rest on his wrist. Her fingers felt the bracelet and her expression softened. “Trust me,” she said, trying her best to sound reassuring. “Everyone else in this place my brother wouldn’t life a finger to save, except mummy. But you John… He’d do anything to keep you safe.”

He nodded, but couldn’t help thinking about the battle outside. Knowing he was useless to them, but wanting to be out there just the same. To help Sherlock and the others in any way he could.

Then… looking to his wrist, to Lily’s hand there he got an idea. He pulled his arm away and unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve, pushing it up his arm. “This,” John said. “Lestrade’s got one just like it, Sherlock said. It’s supposed to show I’m a muggle, right? A special muggle. A guest of your family or something.”

She nodded, watching his hand closely. Eyeing that bracelet.

“Sherlock also said it’s so I don’t get accidentally hexed or cursed or whatever. What does it do?”

She frowned then, looking from his wrist to his face. Clearly she didn’t like what he’d said. “You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “No. He just slapped it on me a few days back. Right before that party. What, exactly, does this thing do? _How_ does it help me? Clearly if I’ve got it covered up, you lot still need to have a way of knowing it’s there so I don’t get turned into a toad.”

“John,” she said seriously, searching his face carefully for any sign that he knew more than he claimed. Any sign of deception. She only saw his confusion and his worry. At last, she took him by the wrist, more forcefully this time, and traced over the designs etched into the metal. “He really didn’t tell you anything more about this?”

“No,” he snapped, a little more harshly than he’d intended. “If he did, I’d have said.”

She continued to examine the bracelet, studying it carefully as she spoke. “It’s imbued with very powerful, very ancient protective magic. Greg does have one, but it’s different from this. Mycroft had it made for him. This one is… older. Much older.” She looked at his face again, studying it to see if he honestly did want to know what it was. If her brother hadn’t told him the truth, he must have had a good reason. He’d never done anything without a reason. Finally, she nodded.

John frowned. “Lily?”

“It’s a binding bracelet,” she said at last. “It protects the wearer, and allows one with no magical blood to see our world. See the things that we keep hidden from your kind. We only give them to muggles we intend to…”

John’s eyes widened, but he had to know. He had to hear it. If not from Sherlock himself, then someone else. “Intend to what? Tell me?”

“It’s not my place,” she said. “He didn’t tell you, so he must have had a good reason-“

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Or I’ll open the bloody doors and find him myself.”

“Open those doors and we’re dead.”

“We’ll be dead anyway, trapped in here like this,” John replied with surprising, and dangerous calm.

She knew he was right. She knew he’d also do just as he’d said. In the short time she had gotten to know this muggle, one thing was very clear to her whether John realized it or not. Her brother would die for him… and he for Sherlock. “You have a plan, don’t you?” she asked. “That’s why you wanted to know about it.”

“Excellent deduction,” John said, realizing only after he’d said it how it sounded. “Is there a way for you to see what kind of protections are on it, exactly? You said powerful and ancient. Anything else? Anything at all?”

She glanced to the others briefly before nodding, but changed the subject… It was not her place to tell him more. “If you go out there, you’ll need help.”

“No. It’s faster if I-“

“You’re not going alone. You’ve got no magic. No weapons. You get hurt and my brother will destroy me and anything in his path.”

“He won’t-“

“I’m not kidding. I’ve seen the terrible things he is capable of when you are in danger. It nearly killed Mycroft and I the last time. Severus can’t… If he loses control… He’s a living bomb, John. Even Voldemort would wet his robes if he had to face Severus in the middle of a panic attack.”

**o0o**

Teddy had thrown himself to the floor, narrowly escaping the backlash created by Sherlock’s spell, which knocked the man backwards. He’d positioned himself so that he would slam against the wall rather than back into the hidden passage.

Parkinson’s laughter was like a murder of crows, crying into the air as she unleashed a wordless curse. “Weak… And I thought your kind were supposed to be strong. It seems I’ve been misinformed about your skill,” she said, pointing he wand right at Sherlock’s heaving chest.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. To him it was so obvious the choice he had to make. It was so very… very simple. “You’re an idiot,” he said between breaths. “A complete and utter idiot. Anderson is better than you, and he loves dinosaurs!”

There was a cracking noise. Then, dust sprinkled down as the ceiling above began to buckle. Sherlock’s eyes cut to where his wand had fallen. Silently he summoned it to him and then, where she couldn’t quite see his hand movements, he hummed a small _reducto_.

“Teddy!” he snapped as the box in Isolde’s hands shattered, causing splinters to fly in every direction. She screamed as the ceiling began to cave in. When Sherlock had shouted, his godsibling had gotten back to his feet to run, the barrier broken by the force of the _expulso_ spell. He tackled the possessed and screaming woman, just as the ceiling caved. But before it could crush her, the last Death Eater apparated.

“NO!” Sherlock howled in rage, more that he could not capture her and question her and demand more about her so called Lady. He knew who it was, of course… But how had the woman gotten word out from Azkaban?…

“Sherlock, help me!” Teddy called, even as Sherlock climbed the heap that had been the parlour ceiling, parts of it still crumbling in as he came back down the other side. There were more important matters at hand. Dark wizards were still loose in his parents’ home…

And he’d seen dementors come out of that damnable box! Wand clutched tightly in his hand he made his way back through the hallways, throwing every door open as he passed in search of Parkinson. In the back of his mind, he knew John was safe. John was in the library. The library was impregnable. And even still John was unknowing, insofar as Sherlock knew, in possession of the very rare _Nysae Colafus_ _ **.(1)**_ The most powerful protective artifact he had been able to find in his travels.

Knowing all of this to be fact, knowing John was safe… He had to keep reminding himself of these facts. Had to keep telling himself that nothing could happen to his blogger. As long as he believed that he could keep a clear head. Keep his calm.

**o0o**

The plan was simple. Lily would remain behind. She had to. But another would go with him, Astra Longbottom drew the short straw. But she was fast, Neville had assured him. And her knowledge of counter-curses and healing spells was better than most. She was training to be a healer, so she would have been much better help than the others.

She and John would go out to, using the bangle on John’s arm to shield them, as they took care of the injured. Lily didn’t like it. She knew it was far too dangerous.

John had made it quite clear that he wasn’t going to just sit around on his arse and do nothing. Wait to be attacked. Wait to be slaughtered.

They were about to leave the library, after discovering the wards on the room would not allow apparition into or out of it. It was a blessing, they realized… as otherwise they would all be dead or dying by now. Lily had a shining cloak over her arm. She presented this to John. “Take this,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Mummy’s cloak. Well… Sev… Sherlock’s cloak now I suppose. He keeps stealing it.” She held it out to him. “He must have left it behind one night… Use it. If they can’t see you, they can’t attack you.”

John nodded and took it from her. Astra watched as he draped it over his shoulders, then pulled it up over his head, disappearing completely. “How do I look?”

“You don’t,” Astra said. “Budge up. Won’t do any good if they can see me.” She felt around where he’d disappeared and found the cloth. Lifting it up she scooted under it with him. “Okay. Where first?”

“The way we came in. Direct path to the dining hall where it all started,” John said.

Lily waved a couple of men over. One of them was a Hawthorne, John remembered. An auror, if he’d heard Sherlock right. “Open it up and cover them. We’ll count to five and shut the door. Any longer than that…”

“We’ll make it through,” Astra said, grabbing John’s hand in an attempt to calm herself down. John gave it a squeeze back. Through the sheer fabric he saw Lily nod and the doors opened a crack. Beyond the man they’d left outside was still fighting, but flagging now. If there were more time, he’d have told him to go in. Told him to head for cover. As it was…

They scooted through and the doors slammed shut behind them. Before them were bodies. Most of them shrouded in black robes, but dotted among them as they made their way down the hall…

* * *

“…As we made our way down the hall…” John trailed off as he yawned, stretching some then rubbed at his face. “I think that’s a good place to stop tonight, don’t you?” He looked across to Sherlock who was leaning back against the wall, eyes half closed. He’d gotten comfortable since his last portion of the story, though it wasn’t that long ago.

Harriet rubbed at her eyes, but Hudson… Hudson was pouting. “But-“

“Listen to your dad,” Sherlock muttered sleepily. John was glad to see him tired for a change, but knew it wouldn’t be long before the man would pass out cold wherever he was. Then it’d be hell trying to get him to go to the bed proper.

John leaned over some to kiss his little girl on the side of her head, then stood with another yawn and stretched, arms reaching for the ceiling. His jumper rode up just a little, showing the waistband of his favorite sweats. Sherlock opened an eye, brow raised as he took in the sight before the jumper fell back down again and John laid a kiss to his son’s forehead. “Get to sleep you two,” he said.

Sherlock closed his eye back, hoping John hadn’t seen him looking as the soldier took both his hands and pulled. Hauling him up off the bed. “As for you, bed.”

“Sleep is boring.”

“I know,” John said as Sherlock draped an arm around his shoulders, leaning as if to make John carry the bulk of his weight. “But you need to sleep.”

Behind them the twins yawned and snuggled up under their blankets. “G’night, daddy,” Hudson said, with his sister following. “G’night father.”

Their parents turned off the light on the way out and shut the door. Sherlock, lazy as ever, made John practically carry him downstairs. Once they were in bed, and John just on the edge of sleep… Sherlock poked him in the arm.

“John.”

He purposely didn’t respond, hoping that whatever it was Sherlock would just give up and go to sleep like a sort-of normal person.

“John,” he whispered, poking again, harder this time.

John screwed his eyes shut tighter. He was going to ignore his husband until one of them passed out cold.

Poke. Poke. “John. I want ice cream.”

_Poke. Poke._

_Poke._

_**Shove.** _

“For the love of god Sherlock, you know where the bloody kitchen is.”

Sherlock huffed in the dark, and John could feel his glare boring into the back of his head. “Curried ice cream.”

“It’s too early for bizarre cravings. You’ve still got a few weeks before that.”

“Jaaaawwn,” he whined. “I really want it.”

Throwing the blankets off John growled and muttered something under his breath. Whatever it was, it made Sherlock smirk. After John was out of the room, he turned on the bedside lamp and pulled his book into his lap. He was tired, but he was actually hungry. And Sherlock had learned the first time around that if he pestered John enough, annoyed him enough, there was nothing that man wouldn’t do for him.

Sometimes, just sometimes, pregnancy was very convenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Nysae Colafus - Latin - Nyse Cuff_  
>  Nyse is a mythical region associated with nymphs. Specifically those who looked after and raised Dionysus.  
> Yes. this name was picked because the translation sounds like “Nice Cuff”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of crack, honestly. But it's fun fluffy crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

The following morning the twins were sitting in their customary places. Their thick reading books out, their fresh stacks of paper sitting to the side, and their pencils set out in neat lines on the table.

All they were waiting for was their father.

They’d had breakfast. They’d cleaned up after themselves. They had even set out four cups and prepared the kettle (but did not turn it on) for when their parents would get up.

After waiting for over an hour, they frowned at one another. It was now 7AM. Sherlock was always waiting for them at 6.

When John staggered out of the bedroom at 7:13, the twins were watching him as he rubbed his face blearily. He gave them a mumbled “morning” before passing through to the kitchen. He fixed four cups of tea, brought the twins their smaller cups, and then went back to the bedroom.

Harriet looked to her brother, her concern mirrored on his face. She was unsure what to do. He raised a brow. She shrugged. They played rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock-banana-John. Hudson won all eight times. Harriet sighed and got to her feet. “Fine,” she said with a groan. “But next time you make your own bloody cereal.”

Hudson sat back and started reading the book Sherlock used to teach them literature and language with as she went to knock tentatively on their parents’ bedroom door.

It opened quickly and John shuffled back out of it, closing it quietly behind him.

“Why is father still in bed?” she asked, looking up at her dad with a sweeping, questioning gaze.

John gave a tight smile. “Father’s not feeling so well today. He needs to have a lie in.”

She hummed in thought at him before narrowing her gaze. “Father hasn’t been feeling well quite a lot recently.”

John clapped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “That’s because he doesn’t know when to stop working.”

“He has been spending more time home as well.”

John sighed and let his hand fall away. “It’s… It’s one of those weird wizardy things,” he said, falling back on the old standard. He wasn’t lying. Well, not entirely. It was a weird wizardy thing. Because normal men couldn’t get pregnant. Only wizards. And even then…

Harriet huffed. “Extra long story tonight then,” she said. “Not negotiable.” Not giving her dad any time to argue, she put her hands behind her back and turned on the spot. John rubbed a hand down his face and groaned as he heard her relaying information to her twin. It was going to be a very long day.

**o0o**

John had left the twins to study past lessons for the greater part of the morning as he cleaned. Not much, just a bit of tidying about. Carrying boxes of old medical journals, and after a quick raid of the childrens’ room old toys as well, up to the attic. It had been converted into a rather small studio flat by Mrs. Hudson some years ago, but to his knowledge it had only been rented out twice.

The first, a college couple that were in at the time he and Sherlock were married had left that autumn. They’d complained of the loud noises from the flat below.

As John unlocked the spare flat and let himself in, he looked around. He’d been up here since it was vacated, of course. To straighten up for their landlady. Make it presentable for prospective tenants. But it had never taken. Sherlock always ran them off. This was actually the first time he’d gotten a proper look around the tiny one room flat. He’d forbidden Sherlock from going up, of course. Didn’t want him to get ideas while hopped up on a cocktail of crazy pregnancy hormones… Which meant he was going to have to ban the downstairs flat soon as well.

He set the boxes on the counter with a sigh. If they didn’t desperately need the storage space, he could really see the potential here. A play room for the kids. Or even move the twins up a level and put their new little one in their old room. Maybe until they’d have to head out to the country when Sherlock started showing he could wriggle some space out of the basement flat. And then fill that space with more junk Sherlock didn’t want to throw out. It could be his pet project he could turn to when the crazy Sherlock crying started. Or when the ravenous four day binge eating would begin.

Or even… dare he say it… when the Experiment Ban would be slammed down for everyone’s protection.

Eventually he made himself go back downstairs. Especially when he heard Hudson and Sherlock getting into a screaming match over, apparently, what happens to a raw egg if you microwave it for seventeen minutes.

He was grateful to have reached the kitchen just before Sherlock was about to put said egg into the microwave to prove his point.

“Love, why don’t you just go back to-“

“Not tired. And this annoying little troll-“

“Your father loves you very much,” John said to Hudson, who looked very much like an angry five year old who was just told that he was put on Santa’s naughty list, and then had his chemistry set taken away just for laughs. “He’s not feeling-“

“I feel **fine** John.”

John took a deep breath, setting the confiscated egg on the counter. “Sherlock, get back to bed.”

“No.”

“Get back to bed, or I swear to God I’ll pick you up and carry you over my shoulder.” And then he gave his husband a very stern, hard glare. “And don’t think I won’t. I’ve carried men and women on my back for miles, weighed down by weapons packs and supplies. In the desert. On no sleep.”

“Yes,” Sherlock growled, throwing his arms up in the air. “We get it. You were a soldier. Good fooooor hey! Put me DOWN!”

As promised, John grabbed the taller man by the arm, squatted just enough to wrap his arms around his waist and hoist him up, fireman style onto his shoulder. “Hudson, love, get the door. Harry, walk behind. I don’t want to damage the walls with your father’s thick skull.”

Hudson scattered, mainly to avoid getting hit by kicking, slippered feet.

“This is no way to treat your loving spouse! Especially in my condition!” Sherlock railed, hitting him anywhere he could reach when he realized kicking wasn’t going to work after his slippers came flying off.

When he came to the quick conclusion that fighting back wasn’t going to work as John slowly made his way back to their bedroom, he looked behind them to their daughter. “Harriet, sweetheart, call your uncles. Owl your Gran. Tell them your daddy’s mistreating me.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, father. But he did warn you. I heard it.”

“I did, too!”

“You’re all out to get me!” Sherlock shouted as Hudson moved out of the way. John gave the boy a small nod of thanks before carefully getting Sherlock into the room. “Shut the door, love. I need to have a talk with your father.”

Hudson quickly shut the door. Moments later his sister joined his side, their shoulders pressed together as they leaned forward to listen. All they managed to get, though, was their daddy’s angry voice clearly chastising their father for being ridiculous. And for the egg. And for the fact that he was wrong about the egg. And for not listening.

And then, just as they were about to turn away and get back to their studies, they heard John’s voice, but it was muffled. They couldn’t hear what he said, but clearly their father didn’t like it.

 _ **“I DO NOT HAVE PREGNANCY BRAIN!”**_ Sherlock’s voice roared from behind the door.

They scurried away as quick as they could, toppling over one another when they reached the sofa. Hudson tossed one of their history books to Harriet, who opened it just as John stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Do not go near that door until I say so!” he called from the kitchen where they assumed he was making himself either a very strong cup of coffee or a very big cup of tea.

They glanced at one another as John came in a few seconds later with a cup of tea.

Knowing it was tea, they were a bit more at ease. It meant that whatever their parents had been arguing about wasn’t really that bad. It was their father being obnoxious again, and they could just wait it out as he sulked in the bedroom all day. If it was coffee… well, it could last days.

John drank his tea in silence, taking deep breaths to calm down before looking at his children. “Go ahead and say it,” he said with a bit of strain in his voice.

“Say what?” Harriet. Innocently.

“You know very well what. Your vocabulary is rather large. I’m sure you heard.”

“We have no idea what you mean.” Hudson. Just as innocently.

John raised a brow. “You’re holding your books upside down,” he said.

They looked at one another, then at their books and very calmly turned them the correct way.

The bedroom door opened, but Sherlock did not step out. He was wrapped in the bedsheet. A quick glance in that direction told John he’d at least kept his trousers on. “ICE CREAM!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

“We’re out, love. You ate the last of it this morning.”

“Then get more.” The door slammed shut. Then it opened again. “And make me a curry.” It slammed. Then opened. “And I had better taste the love. The LOVE John! _I MUST TASTE IT!_ ”

The door slammed again. The three of them waited. And waited. At last John sighed. “Okay… Who wants to stay here with cranky crazy father?”

Harriet stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Hudson’s eyes grew large in… No one could really tell if it was surprise, horror, or amazement. “Okay, who wants to come with daddy to get a few more tubs of ice cream so father will stop acting like a crazy cat lady?”

Sherlock’s voice boomed from behind the closed door. **“I AM NOT MOLLY!”**

“Oh God yes,” they exclaimed in unison, tossing their books between them on the sofa and tripping over one another to get upstairs.

In less than ten minutes John and his children had left home on the fastest route to the nearest store that had ice cream by the tub. Not just the carton. Because it wouldn’t last the night.

The detective himself lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He was still angry. Not at John, because the rational part of himself was still there. Somewhere behind what John had labeled _pregnancy brain_. He was angry at the egg. That damn egg. Because he could prove his point by just simply putting it in the microwave…

He got up and shuffled in his sheet back to the kitchen where that egg still lay. Right where John had left it. He pulled out a chair and sat, glowering at the egg as if it had done him a personal injustice. As if its mere existence were the biggest crime in all of creation.

It was just… sitting there… mocking him…

Sherlock would show that egg. He’d prove exactly what he’d said to Hudson. And John would tell him how clever it was after he explained how the principle applied to a case he’d been called in on where a prize ostrich was stolen and the eggs sold on the black market. Oh, John would call him brilliant…

He reached out for that accursed egg when his phone in the bedroom gave a ping. Followed by another.

Grumbling, he got back to his feet to fetch it. Maybe it was Lestrade with a case. That would be perfect. That would get his mind off his row with John. Who wasn’t moving fast enough because he really wanted that ice cream. Right now.

When he finally found his phone, obscured by a cooking magazine on John’s side of the bed, he glared at the screen.

_**Do not put the egg into the microwave. - MH** _

Before Sherlock could respond, his phone pinged again.

_**Place the egg in the microwave, and Greg will perform another drugs bust. Anderson will accompany. - MH** _

Sherlock snarled at his phone, throwing it into a random drawer in the bedroom before returning to the kitchen.

When John and the kids returned, each carrying 2 tubs of vanilla ice cream, this is where they found him. Back straight, eyes focused on the egg that John had neglected to return to the icebox. They were actually surprised the man hadn’t made it explode by the sheer force of his mind, let alone his wild and uncontrollable magic.

“Sher… love,” John said after they’d put the ice cream away. He gently touched his husband’s shoulder as the twins stood at the edge of the kitchen. In a softer voice he was sure only Sherlock could hear, he tried again. “You really need to get back to bed. Please, nymph… you’re scaring the kids.”

Sherlock turned his angry eyes on John, and felt his face soften just a little. “It’s that damn egg, John… It’s just sitting there. Mocking me.”

“I’ll make sure it gets turned into something really disgusting. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

With that, Sherlock stood, hugged his sheet tighter around him and shuffled back to the bedroom. But not before shouting for his favorite pregnancy snack… Reminding John that if it wasn’t made with love, he’d know.

Once the seriously crazy wizard was back in bed, content to lie there with a copy of _Treasure Island_ to occupy his mind even just a little, John grabbed the counter and allowed himself a moment of relief. Harriet and Hudson had returned to their positions at the edge of the kitchen, watching their dad as he set about making curry to go over the ice cream.

After sharing a look, in that strange silent communication that twins share, they nodded and went in to help. Once they’d gotten the largest bowl they could find out, and a giant spoon, they were told to sit at the table.

For the next half hour they watched John and periodically heard Sherlock shouting about pirates and ice cream from his bedroom.

Once the disgusting treat was made and delivered, John returned and like always, made more tea.

“So…” Harriet began.

“Father’s uh…” Hudson.

“Pregnant?” they asked together.

John turned on them, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who told you?”

“So it’s true. He’s crazy because he’s having a baby.” Hudson.

Harriet nodded. “You were yelling and-“

“Can men have babies?” Hudson asked, tilting his head in confusion.

John sighed, waiting for the kettle to boil. “Yes. But not all of them.”

“Can _you_ have babies? Are we **YOUR** babies?”

“I can’t have babies. But yes, you’re my babies. Well… I helped.”

The twins looked at one another, and John did his best to ignore their silent conversation. “So… Gran really is our Gran, and Grandpa really is our Grandpa. Who had the babies?”

John rubbed his face. He really didn’t want to be having this conversation right now. He wanted to have it with Sherlock in the room. Or at least another wizard. Hell, even Mycroft was better than trying to explain it by himself.

“Gran had the babies. Now, no more of this. Not until your father’s feeling better-“

“You mean less crazy.”

Harriet elbowed her brother. “He’s not crazy. He’s… he’s got pregnancy brain.”

The three of them remained in the kitchen for the next few hours, moving only when they heard Sherlock clearing his throat from the kitchen doorway. The empty bowl in his hand and his book tucked under his arm. “John. Children.”

“Yes love?” John said, opting for _love_ rather than any other name. Feeling it was safest no matter which direction the crazy train was about to crash.

“I’m-“

“I know, love. Harriet, get the bowl. Hudson, go back to your studies. Father and I need to sit and talk for a few minutes.” John tried his best to seem reassuring.

The twins gave Sherlock an odd look before staring right at his middle. Harriet dropped the bowl in the sink and ran for it as Sherlock seated himself in her empty chair.

**o0o**

That night the twins camped out in front of the telly. They had been watching one of their dad’s favorite movies, and admittedly one of their own as well. “He’s got a bath robe just like you do,” Harriet observed, just like she always did when the movie was on.

“What I still don’t get,” Hudson said, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest. “Why didn’t Arthur just go back in the house? Long enough to get a change of clothes. I mean, who really wants to hitchhike across the universe-“

“He wasn’t hitchhiking anymore. He was on a ship. His friend’s ship.”

“Zaphod isn’t his friend. He’s his friend’s semi-half cousin who shares three of the same mothers as Ford!”

“But he wasn’t hitchhiking! So how can he hitchhike in his jimjams if he wasn’t even-“

“Kids, kids. Calm down,” John said, picking up the remote and turning off the movie during the credits. “It’s just a movie. I’m sure when Arthur and the gang got back to the ship Arthur was able to find some clean pants.”

“I liked the books better,” Hudson said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harriet nodded. “And the radio plays. Those were much better than the movie.”

“I believe,” Sherlock said from across the room, where he’d been sitting in absolute silence since he and John had finished speaking in the kitchen earlier in the day. “You are forgetting the six episode mini-series.” He sat up from the sofa, resting his hands in his lap. “While created using a very poor budget, the mini-series had been very faithful to the original concept. The 2005 film was, in its own right, very well done it was based on ideas as they were presented in the mini-series. It was also heavily modernized. Many instances where Arthur originally mentioned and used a digital watch were replaced with mobile telephones. And while I agree that the books were superior to the film, we must remember that the sixth book, _And Another Thing_ , should never count in the Hitchhiker’s mythos, as it was penned by a different author, despite receiving approval to do so.”

The three sat and stared at him blankly.

Sherlock shrugged. “What? You insist on watching this film once a month. You also insist on speaking through the entirety of the film, and afterwards discuss the various differences between the different media formats. Looking it up was the logical thing to do.”

John smiled. “I suppose storing the information in your mind palace was also a logical step?”

“Hm… Yes,” Sherlock said. “I have stored it alongside all data to do with my nest.” And that, to Sherlock, seemed to explain everything.

Harriet looked around, then picked up her forgotten cup of cocoa and took a sip. It was cold, but it was also chocolate. So she didn’t mind too much. “Well… As entertaining as this is… Story time.”

“Sweetheart, it’s late and your father-“

“Is feeling perfectly fine now that I’ve had my ice cream, a good book, and enough tea to sink a ship.” Sherlock scooted to the center of the couch, beckoning the children to him. John blinked and there was a child attached to Sherlock’s sides like little limpets. Long, pale arms wrapped around their shoulders.

John’s heart leapt. It was so… peaceful. So calm and so domestic. A far cry from his normal Sherlock. The rigid, stiff and formal man he’d married. The muggle knew this was only because of the cocktail of hormones coursing uncontrolled through the nymphae’s bloodstream. Much earlier than the previous pregnancy had affected him. While he’d seen Sherlock’s affectionate displays with their children before, and only their children and himself, it was nice once in a while to see more than just a peck on the forehead. Or a quick, gentle hug.

Pity this came with angry mood swings and, he knew would be soon to come, uncontrollable sobbing over the tiniest little thing…

He was pulled out his head when Sherlock smiled at him, a hand stroking a head of sandy blond hair each. “I believe you promised an extra long story tonight in place of their morning education.”

John rubbed the back of his neck, glancing towards the abandoned school books in the corner of the living room. “Yeah… Sorry Sher. She was really on my case about… well. She was worried.”

“And rightfully so,” Sherlock said. “So, shall we pick up with your side of the story or mine?”

“Your’s, I should think. It’s more exciting.”

Sherlock gave a nod and quickly remembered where he had left off.

“I just left Teddy Lupin to deal with Isolde Thorton in the parlour and the aftermath of the Vanishing Box.”

“Vanishing Box?” Hudson asked. “I thought-“

“Yes, well, I suspected it was a form of Vanishing Cabinet when I saw what was escaping from it. Obviously there must have been a pair of boxes made from a single cabinet. Now, may I continue?”

Hudson nodded against his side, snuggling closer. Sherlock continued. “I ran down the corridor with purpose, searching for the Death Eater that had been let into my parents home…”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

A tempest of pent up rage. Though outwardly, as Sherlock stormed the halls in search of Parkinson, he seemed merely determined and focused. Inwardly he was in knots. He need not raise his wand to open the doors when he passed. His mere presence as it drew nearer threw them open.

At each flitting shadow. At each shuffle of footsteps. Each rustle of a cloak. He raised his wand and cast a curse. No simple spell, no easily deflected hex would do. No, not for a Death Eater.

Laughter behind him. He whirled around with wand raised, the power he forced into it causing the length of reinforced wood to vibrate in his hand. He was steadily losing his carefully crafted control. The suppressants were not enough. Not strong enough as those his body had been accustomed to. The dosage wasn’t quite correct… and now his body, and the corridor were paying for it.

“Show yourself!” Sherlock demanded, his strong, commanding voice piercing the laughter. His ears pricked up, listening. Carefully calculating the echo. Eyes darting too and fro, taking in every detail. Every shadow that she could be hiding in.

A shock of red cracked above his head. He moved, turning and flinging another bright green curse in the direction of origin. A cry of pain. He moved again, steady and sure, towards the body that now thrashed in the doorway of an unused den. His wand clutched tightly, humming in his hand, humming in that same note of disapproval that John, his dear dear John, would always make when chiding him in public.

He cast another spell, stilling the form. It was too easy…

Reaching down to uncover the face, to reveal the hooded menace, he saw not the haggard old woman worn down by years of serving the dark. Instead he saw the pale, cold face of a dead man. The body itself obviously feminine, but that face unmistakable. Crouching low, unable to cast his morbid curiosity aside, Sherlock exposed more of the face.

The hair was different. It was red, not golden. Long, not army grade short. But the scarring around the edges of the face, that grinning, wicked face of a man he’d shot in Hungary. The man he’d spent three years tracking down, working his way through Moriarty’s web to satisfy his own personal vendetta.

“How…” he breathed, ash colored eyes staring down at the face of Sebastian Moran. He felt like his heart was trying to escape up his throat. His breath felt constricted. And that woman with a man’s face just lay motionless. Alive, and in pain, but grinning all the same.

This, all of this…

Was a message.

Was a trap.

**o0o**

In John’s experience anything that sounded like thunder and lightning was something to avoid.

Anything that could smash through a wall was also something to avoid.

Anything that combined both under the same roof… Well, he didn’t need to point out the obvious.

Hiding beneath the invisibility cloak he and Astra had made their way back to the dining hall. They’d stopped only a few times to check any injured that had been guests at the dinner party. One so far had been deceased. The others Astra and he had managed to quickly triage, telling them to head towards the library. While not the safest, it was their best hope.

More than once Astra had deflected any stray bolts of magic that came their direction, not wanting to take her chances and rely too heavily on the bracelet’s protective magic.

“You’re a foolish muggle,” she’d said more than once. John had to agree with her. He kept expecting to find Sherlock among the black clad bodies scattered about. But each time he looked, each time he swept his gaze over the fallen there was no sign of the insufferable detective. He was both relieved and worried. Relieved that he wasn’t dead… but worried that perhaps he really was this time, and he just hadn’t come across the body yet.

“This way,” Astra said, nodding towards the drawing room. John looked down at the latest body hidden with them beneath the cloak. At the cold dead eyes of Angelica Boot, a woman he’d only just met. Sweeping his hand over her face, his fingers applying just a slight pressure to close those empty eyes, he nodded. He wanted to feel the loss. This was someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister or mother or friend. But he couldn’t allow himself this.

While he knew this was no war, rather, not a battle he could rightly understand, he knew this was still a combat zone. Still a battlefield, however small. Sentiment had no place here.

Astra kept a close eye out, then nudged him when the time was right to allow Ms. Boot’s body to emerge from beneath the cloak. Hurriedly they passed through the doors into the next room where a far more distressing scene played out before them.

Just as they had slipped out at one end of the large dining chamber a tall, pale skinned and angry creature burst forth from the opposite. Dull grey eyes were wild and searching…

**o0o**

He’d bolted back down the corridor, running as if he were back home in London. Back on the streets chasing criminals like he and John did what seemed like every other weekend, though he knew it to be far less often than that.

Teddy had pulled the splinters from Isolde’s face and arms and was now working on her torso when Sherlock had burst back into the parlour. The detective only gave him a cursory glance before continuing on, back through the shortcut. Back through the hidden passage.

Once out on the other side he found Nicholas Hawthorne applying pressure to his brother in law Percy’s wand arm as Hermione cast healing charm after healing charm on the fellow.

“Severus!” she exclaimed when he stepped out of the passage. “Did you find him? Is he alright?”

“Who?” he asked, studying her face, assuming she meant her spouse. Or perhaps his own mother, as the three were still quite close. But no, the worry lines in her face, they were not so deep as to tell him she meant one of the Golden Trio.

“Your John,” she said. “He’s not in the library?”

Sherlock cast his eyes across the room, scanning the occupants closely. The injuries, mostly minor, seemed to have been taken care of in a hodgepodge of spell and…

…This was battlefield triage…

“How long ago?”

“Wh-“

“How long ago was I here!” Sherlock demanded, his magic flaring so high, so quickly that even the war seasoned witch could sense the sudden panic that was hidden from the voice but not from the presence. “How! Long!”

“Just a few minutes,” Nicholas replied, shuddering under that dangerous gaze.

Sherlock tore past them, knocking the auror’s hands away from Percy’s arm without even a glance back. The doors leading into his father’s study were barricaded, but not for long as he ripped through them with only a wave of his hand. Once on the other side of the study, he looked up and down the corridor. Black cloaked bodies littered the ground. Whomever had been out there had done their job and done it well. He looked towards the library, then cut his eyes back towards the dining hall. That, he knew, was where he would find John.

His brave, foolish, stubborn, idiot soldier. Going straight into danger like a moth to flame.

Ahead of him he could see his own body storming into the dining hall seconds before the passage was obscured by the woeful presence of the wraiths that normally should have been drifting about in silent guard of Azkaban.

In the clarity of his mind palace he could clearly hear John’s voice. That same angry upset shouting immediately after finding out that Sherlock had performed an experiment on him at Baskerville. He raised his wand, trying to muster all of his willpower to remain steady, to remain focused and clear as he let the words he’d only managed to get out once before flow to the space just behind his lips, ready to spill over.

Behind him he heard voices. A call in the light of the heavy darkness that had taken the corridor, threatening to consume him and everything in it.

Light.

Creatures made of it tore past him, parting the darkness as his heart beat fervently in his chest. A mongoose ran along, a hare not far behind it as Neville and Luna Longbottom led the charge from the library. His sister Lily’s voice rang out as her own, a very large, very angry looking cat leapt over and forward.

“Go, Brother!” she cried.

Sherlock didn’t need to be told. He took his opening the moment it appeared, darting down the corridor after the imposter.

**o0o**

They knew they shouldn’t be there.

Once they saw that Sherlock wasn’t there, they knew they should have backed away. But now it was too late.

The doctor in John told him to remain. The soldier in John told him this was where he needed to be. He knew in this domain he was useless. But at least… At least he could be a distraction? He rubbed the bracelet on his wrist. “We’ve got to get them out of here.”

“I can’t take on this many alone,” Astra hissed at him.

“No. You can’t. But they’re pinned. And it doesn’t look good,” John whispered back to her. “I’ll distract them, you lead Harry and the others to the dining hall. More escape routes. Easier to fall back in retreat.”

She squeezed his hand. “I won’t leave you here. Severus-“

“I’ve got this cuff thing. It hasn’t failed us so far, has it? He’d never… He’d never give it to me if it wasn’t going to work. He’d have tested it, made sure.” His words were spoken more to reassure himself than the witch. She was older than he, yes, but it was obvious she’d been born in a time of relative peace. She had no context to which to relate this experience.

A strangled cry ripped through the air around them as one of the men on the far side of the drawing room was thrown back, breaking the meager line of defense they had created. The voice that followed was unmistakable. John had listened to it every day of his visit. Had listened, enthralled by a roaring fire with a hot cup of tea, to the real stories of an old wizard’s war. And that voice was not calm. Not soft and quiet. It was raw, ripped from his throat in anger and fear.

_**“DRACO!”** _

John didn’t give her time to react. He threw the cloak off, exposing himself to anyone that dared to look his way. “Oi!” he called out. “Oi! Over here you good for nothing bottom feeders! Come get the muggle!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Astra shouted, revealing herself by the sound of her voice.

“Making a distraction. Hurry! They need a healer over there.” He waved his arms about, causing one of the men across the room to give him a brief quizzical look. “Oh, look! It’s a muggle! Come and get him! Defenseless and powerless and utterly harmless! Easy to kill! Come on!”

John knew if Sherlock could see him, could hear him he’d have a right fit. But what else was he supposed to do? He’d be useless helping the others. They needed their own sort of healing touch. And that was just something he didn’t have. Sure enough, the hooded enemies began to turn, and John’s breath caught in his throat and he screwed his eyes shut as he tensed himself up for the first and probably last jolt of whatever deadly magical lightning curse thing they threw his way.

But the pain he had expected never came. Instead, as he backed away, trying to move himself along the walls in an attempt to sort of round the room, the metal of the bracelet heated against his flesh. And each bolt that whizzed close by was suddenly redirected.

 _“Avada-“_ one of the menacing figures began.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

The wizard was knocked off their feet. And even John had enough sense to know that he, she, whomever it was would not be getting back up again.

He looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, covering it as Astra helped drag Draco from the room. As Harry fought until the last moment to keep their enemies at bay. “Go with Draco!” Sherlock snapped at him when he seemed to hesitate. John’s eyes narrowed as he tried to see through the dust and the gloom.

Sherlock edged closer, his wand…

John’s voice caught in his throat as a large, wraith-like creature loomed over Sherlock’s head, bony hands outstretched as it to snatch him from the ground. And as Sherlock came closer, John could feel the air grow very still. Could feel his skin crawl and the very breath in his lungs grow painfully cold despite the heat on his wrist.

It was only when he was nearly upon him that John realized the dark wizards were no longer attacking. They were, in fact, crowded around as if held back by some sort of shield.

Grey eyes…

Grey, not ash. A distinctive difference between the dull deadness and the familiar eerie brightness he had expected to see.

His wrist was hot now. So hot he could hardly stand it. And this Sherlock that wasn’t quite Sherlock stopped. His face twisted into a snarl as he found he could come no closer. “Clever. Always so clever…” He sneered. And John knew. He **knew** from the moment he could see those eyes that this was not his Sherlock. This was someone, something else entirely. His courage sank, and he was barely aware of his heart breaking from the sorrow that threatened to overcome him.

The wraith loomed overhead, pushing forward. Closer and closer until it was through the invisible barrier that had been unknowingly erected around him. “I don’t need to get close to kill you, muggle.” That sense of dread, of sorrow intensified. A familiar weight settled over him as he could see that visage he had pushed to the furthest corners of his mind as clear as the day it happened. He could see it. And hear it. And even taste the exhaust in the London air as he unwillingly relived the worst day of his life. Worse than Afghanistan. Worse than getting shot. Worse than every failed relationship. Over and over as the creature loomed closer and closer until he could smell it, faintly, through the London air, the memory of his best friend with arms spread out falling…

Falling…

Only to repeat it all again. Stronger and brighter. More intense as if he were physically there again. He could hear his voice in his ear, could hear the lies and the tears Sherlock had been fighting to hold back but couldn’t quite hold them all…

If this thing, this imposter were here now then he needn’t be a genius detective to deduce what it meant.

And John Watson couldn’t face living in a world like that again. A world without Sherlock bloody Holmes.

**o0o**

Sherlock tore into the dining hall, his mind racing as he searched for John. Following the trail of hodgepodge first aid across the room. Scanning each face, each body and scrutinizing it faster than he ever had done before. Desperation clouding his senses. Rage threatening to break through his internal barriers that had withstood years and years of abuse from both sides. His knuckles were white as he gripped his wand, his hold threatening to snap it in two. Would have done had he not added the silver, added the metal to reinforce it. To strengthen it.

Knowing this only reminded him of why it was even there. To keep the wood from shattering, from splintering. Protecting what precious thing lay in his wand’s core. Twisted and woven together to make a single thin cord of inky black silk coiled around a length of carefully collected tufts of sand.

As he stepped over the dead, across their filthy, smelly corpses without even a look back, he fought the rising panic. That familiar and unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that he hadn’t felt since his confrontation with Mary in the warehouse. Since facing Moriarty on the rooftop.

“Severus?”

He stopped only when he heard his given name. Never lowering his wand, barely acknowledging them through the haze. Mycroft. He could see Mycroft, limping and burdened with their father between himself and Blaise Zabini.

But he looked past them, past his brother and his father and the others now free from the drawing room, to his mother’s horrified face as he turned to go back. Whatever walls he had built up that held the creature, the thing within crumbled. Whatever potions or concoctions that had been coursing through his veins earlier in the day and evening were now completely useless as he pushed his way through to stop Harry from going back. A tight hand on his arm was met with a shout as it was pulled away, scalded from just a touch.

Sherlock reached out to stop Harry, grabbing a handful of shirt and pulling back. He shifted, moving just enough to keep from knocking himself over with the act, growling as he released Harry to send him bowling back into the others.

“Severus!”

He heard his name muffled by the rush of his blood pumping. In his peripheral he could see Mycroft. Injured. Thigh gashed open, bleeding freely. Useless. Blaise, seemingly the only one halfway standing. But slow with age. His father barely conscious. Useless. His mother, torn between staying by his husband’s side and his own innate hero complex.

He looked away.

When he did, the doors, rather what was left of them slammed closed. Furniture scraped the hardwood floor to further block the entrance, causing the robed wizards to turn on and draw their wands once more.

But the only thing Sherlock bloody Holmes saw was the imposter as he turned to face him. The visage shifting and taking its original form once more. Height dropping. Hair lengthening and growing lighter as dull grey turned to angry, envious green.

“Where’s your pet Death Eater?”

“Did you like my present?” she asked, that wicked smile never leaving her ruby lips.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

“Hm. Morbid.”

There was a glimmer of madness in her eyes. “I thought you would enjoy playing with the dead.”

“Call this off, Mary,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his tone even. Ash eyes flicking back to John. There was little time left. He had to act fast. But what to do? His mind was processing multiple scenarios at once. Calculating the figures and crunching the facts of his situation. At he edges of his rational mind panic threatened to consume him. Threatened to edge its way in and…

**Attack the minions. - Mary gets away. John dies.**

**Kill Mary. - Counterattack from her minions. Considerable damage taken. John dies. If survive, sent to Azkaban for use of the Killing Curse.**

**Save John. - Leave self open to attack. Fatality inevitable. John lives. Risk further damage to already fragile psyche and further damage from surviving enemy agents.**

…worm into every decision and choice, threading each action with emotional instability. Leading to dangerous and rash decisions. Leading to mistakes.

His heartrate quickened. He saw her lips move but didn’t hear the words. He could only hear the pained moaning from John. He could not imagine the things the proximity of the dementor had brought on in his soldier’s mind. What deep, dark secrets and terrible memories he was being forced to endure.

And Sherlock knew he had only himself to blame.

Through the haze he managed to hear her again. “Keep him alive long enough to watch,” Mary said coldly and then her followers moved as one. One large black mass.

Perhaps… Perhaps if he drew the dementor away. Just enough to buy some time.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ he shouted, a happy memory instantly called upon from the vast stores of his Mind Palace. He knew he had cast it only once before. Just once. And it had not been full bodied, but just a shield. Just enough to get himself away. And as he flung the charm across the drawing room at the dementor, it was as he had expected. Weak, but still enough of a diversion. He heard it’s mournful wail as it was forced back. Forced away.

And John’s coughing as he was released from its thrall.

But Sherlock had no time to revel in it. In the immediate moments of casting his charm he felt the sting in his arm from a well placed hex. His ribs felt as if they were being crushed when a rope had come up from behind to coil about his torso.

His concentration was broken and the patronus shield was lost. He had only bought a little time. He hoped, yes, Sherlock Holmes actually hoped, that it would be enough. “John,” he tried, then again. “John! Run!” But the soldier didn’t move. Not in the direction he wanted. Instead, he stepped closer to the woman. He could see, however, that she was forced to back away with each step until John had stopped. Confusion so easily written across his face as he exclaimed.

“Mary?” He blinked at her, then glanced past just barely to see Sherlock, struggling against the ropes for all he was worth as they wound tighter and tighter.

Sherlock’s heart rate skyrocketed as he was forced to his knees. “John!” His mind was focused on one thing and one thing only. “John run! Just run! She’s not-” But his voice was silenced by a mere flick of a wrist from one of her followers. Mary shot him a fiery smirk before softening her features for the muggle.

“Oh John,” she said, her voice dripping with false innocence. Prodding at that chivalrous streak in him like a damsel in distress. Anger was evident in his recovering senses, but confusion was slithering its way in as he looked past her. Looked to the black mass of robes and his best mate fighting to get free in utter, devastating silence and it was very clear then that John wasn’t going to be fooled by this woman.

Not again.

Mary growled from the back of her throat in anger and uttered something foreign. The dementor forced its way into John’s personal bubble once more, this time from behind. And once again John felt the chill and the sorrow overtake him…

* * *

“…And while I fought against the ropes to get free, the entirety of my focus was not upon the dark wizards that held me prisoner, nor even that wicked witch Mary Morstan. I kept fighting to free myself because I couldn’t bear the thought of watching John meet his demise in such a cliché manner.” Sherlock stroked Hudson’s hair. He glanced over to Harriet, who had migrated to John’s side when he’d joined them on the sofa, She gave the softest little gasp.

“It’s so romantic,” she said in a whisper.

Sherlock looked up to John’s face with a secret little smile. “Watsons… The more dangerous and horrible things sound, the more you all become silly romantics.”

John chuckled. “You wouldn’t have us any other way.”

Hudson scowled. “Don’t get all kissy face now. I don’t want nightmares.”

Their daddy tilted his head while their father suppressed a laugh. “You don’t mind hearing about doom, gloom, evil wizards and me having near death experiences. But the moment you think I’m going to kiss your father you’ve suddenly got nightmares.”

The elders laughed as Hudson pouted. Harriet was still in awe at the romanticism of it all. Or rather, how outlandish and fairy-tale it sounded. When the children were put to sleep in their little camp of pillows and blankets on the floor between the chairs and the telly, their parents retreated to their bedroom.

Sherlock had quickly stretched himself across the mattress and watched John in his nightly routine before bed. “No shirt,” the wizard ordered, receiving a narrowed eye expression. “You’re suspicious… Hmm…”

“Our children are right in the next room.”

“As opposed to one floor up,” Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh. “I just want to…”

“Want to what?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

John crossed his arms over his still fully clothed chest. Eyebrows raised in challenge, which also made his hairline seem to dip down his forehead. It was quite an amusing thing to see, really. “Oh, I think you’re going to have to,” the muggle replied.

“…John…”

John shrugged. “If you don’t really want it…” He let his words hang in the air.

Sherlock lifted his head from his pillows with a huff. “Fine,” he snapped a bit too harshly. “Kindly remove your shirt so that I may properly cuddle.” The harshness never left his tone.

A large, stupid grin spread across his husband’s face and the shirt was left on the floor at the foot of the bed. John crawled up from the end to lay on his back. In the blink of an eye Sherlock had wriggled himself as close as possible. His cheek was pressed against John’s good shoulder, an arm around his waist and his legs wrapped around John’s right one. His grip was tight, one John sometimes called a kung-fu vice grip for as strong as it was.

Molly had caught them like this the very first time it happened, he recalled without conscious effort. It was after a particularly trying case; both men were soaked to the bone. Sherlock had pulled John with him up on an autopsy slab and forcibly removed his shirt. After which he clung to him, just like this. Of course that time Sherlock hadn’t been as considerate of his shoulder as he was now. They hadn’t even been a couple for more than two weeks. And they’d… cuddled. Sort of. John was uncomfortable. Molly was mortified. And Sherlock had gotten the best sleep he’d had since John’s first night back at Baker Street.

And Anderson was threatened with life in a very unsanitary and sordid little hellhole by an anonymous (Mycroft) person if he didn’t immediately delete the photographs he’d taken with his phone.

The phone was shot by a very good sniper days later. Just for insurance.

Unlike then, Sherlock’s other arm was folded between them. His hand resting comfortably at his neck, fingers wrapped into a loose fist in the warmth to be found there. Even with his eyes closed, the detective knew what John was thinking.

Probably from the way he held him. The pressure of his right arm wrapped around his upper back, holding him in place protectively. Instinctively. Or the way John had woven his fingers with his husband’s on his hip.

“She’s right,” Sherlock said after a long, luxurious moment, ignoring John’s obvious reminiscing. (It was his breathing pattern that gave him away of course.).

“Who?”

“It was romantic.”

“Oh,” he said, letting his hand near Sherlock’s bicep slip down to is back. Gently stroking down his spine lazily. “That. It was insane.”

“Quite a tame Christmas, actually. Usually mummy is the one to tear the walls down.”

John moved his head a little so he could look down his body into Sherlock’s curly black hair. “Because you and Mycroft won’t stop your childish feud.”

Sherlock hummed at him. “Well… It was romantic. Your life was in danger. I dash into save you.”

“If you’re waiting to be called _my charming hero_ you’ve got a long wait. You nearly got killed yourself.”

“I had it under control.”

John squeezed his hand. “You had a panic attack when you thought I was dead. That’s not under control.”

“You were unconscious for days. You have no accurate basis for your claims.” Sherlock rubbed an ankle against John’s calf, humming again in contentment.

“Sher, love, you flipped your shit and took out a quarter of the manor. Nearly got yourself carted off to Azkaban for using curses so dark they still don’t exactly know what they do. Thankfully you didn’t kill anyone that didn’t deserve it. And the presents and the tree didn’t go up in flames with the rest of the parlour.”

Sherlock lifted his head, eyes opening to study his muggle’s face. “Mmm… Yes. Your moral ambiguity is showing. You’re doing that eye frown again.”

“I do not… How exactly can someone frown with their eyes?”

“You smile and beam at me but in your mind you’re shaking your head disapprovingly. I imagine you’re wearing one of your cardigans as well. The gray one. Arms crossed, feet planted just a foot… no, foot and a quarter apart. You’re also refusing to do the laundry despite the fact I’ve remembered the milk.”

John sighed and rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “…It was, just a little, romantic.”

Sherlock nearly purred, laying his head back down against John’s shoulder and nuzzling the warm flesh there. “We’ll be telling them the kid friendly version of course,” he said. “No need to tell them I threw their grandfather out of a window and used Teddy as a blunt instrument with which to save you from Mary after I’d chased off the dementor with my hedgehog.”

“I think they’d be more frightened to hear that you snogged me while I was unconscious than anything else love.” He was trying to sound sarcastic, but couldn’t manage it through his big, stupid smile. “We might give poor Hudson nightmares.”

Sherlock chuckled, curling his hand just a bit tighter under his chin as John’s laughter sent vibrations through his chest and shoulders. Vibrations that Sherlock loved so much he would actually admit to enjoy the act of cuddling.

“So what version _will_ we tell them?”

“Hmm… I’ll think of something.”

**o0o**

John had been called away before the sun came up. Something about a girl found in the Thames. Sherlock hadn’t quite caught all of it. He wanted to go, but his sensible husband had told him no. They had compromised, however, by Sherlock shoving two cameras into his hand.

“I really don’t need-“

He’d been shut up when Sherlock had draped his coat over his shoulders and shoved him out the door with an annoyed huff. He was quite unhappy about having to stay home. But they couldn’t both go. They couldn’t take the children with them (especially since the last time when the twins had solved the murder within ten minutes of arriving… and the unattractive mess the murderer had left on the whitewashed walls). And after his behavior the day before it was clear Sherlock’s rational mind was compromised no matter how stubborn his denial.

So, John had been sent to take pictures with both a muggle and wizard camera. The added bonus of the wizard camera being that the photographs moved. And Sherlock could examine them closely for any out of place people or items.

Their little tiff had woken the twins, but after a warm glass of milk they’d been put back to sleep again.

Sherlock, however, did not return to his bed. He sat on his and John’s bed and began to think. He needed to not only devise an alternative, child-friendly version of the next part of the bed time story but also figure out what to do when his pregnancy would require him to vacate Baker Street for the remainder of the period.

Of course, Molly or Mike would be called to flat-sit for them. Last time Mrs. Hudson had complained about all of Sherlock’s experiments going bad while they were away. She hadn’t known entirely why they had left, but was put at ease when Molly offered to look after their flat and handle any problematic experiments Sherlock would be leaving behind.

A stay at Hogwarts, while it was rather nice the last time, was not an option. They had the twins with them as well. And he didn’t think having John too far from him even during teaching hours would be a good idea. He had become… volatile.

And staying with his parents was out of the question. Just spending a week under the same roof as his father was hell. Months at a time?… Oh, he’d rather be in Azkaban. With a sigh, Sherlock flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He could ask about the house in Godric’s Hollow. Or one of Mycroft’s country properties.

He pushed these thoughts to the back room of the Mind Palace. Let them work through themselves in the background as he summoned up the memories from that first Christmas after his return. Skimming through them as easily as a hot knife cuts through butter until he found the correct ones. Christmas Eve night. The dinner party. The fighting that came after. Mary Morstan and John in the drawing room.

After mentally saving a back-up copy (as he treated his brain like a muggle computer) to a Mind Palace room he designated as The Vault, he began going through every little detail. “Now then… which particulars to delete?…”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

The story did not continue for quite some time. John and Sherlock worked a case (which took a bit longer than usual due to the fact John wouldn’t let Sherlock near anything that was potentially dangerous to their unborn child). Their grandparents looked after them until it was over. All the while Sherlock was still trying to figure out how best to continue telling the Christmas tale. It was only made more frustrating by the fact they pestered him constantly for it.

John had managed to get them to calm down about it after explaining to them not to put their father under too much stress because it would be bad for their new baby brother or sister. It didn’t stop them from trying to get more of the story, though. They just tried different people. All of whom were warned by John not to give into temptation… No matter how big a deducing fit Hudson threw or how adorable Harriet became.

The twins had started to give up hope of ever hearing the end when John and Sherlock became busy with packing. Clothes, mainly. And a few of their favorite cups. Toys for the twins. Their lesson books. And a few trinkets.

They sat side by side on the landing outside their bedroom, watching John toting luggage outside while Sherlock barked orders at him and occasionally demanded more ice cream. They didn’t know quite what was going on even though John had sat them down and explained as best he could that they were all going away to the country for a while.

Hudson had nearly thrown a fit, but his sister stopped him, telling him to behave or else he’d upset their father and that wasn’t good for anyone. Finally, John came back inside. Red faced and sweating from all the toting and carrying. He spotted the pair on the landing in front of their room. Side by side, hugging their stuffed animals quietly. Watching him curiously.

“Come on you two. Let’s keep your father company while we wait for aunt Molly.”

Hudson glanced at his sister, as if to ask permission to speak. She nodded. “Why is she coming? I thought we were leaving.”

“Well, she’s going to watch the flat for us. Make sure nobody breaks in while we’re away.”

“Are we going to be gone a long time?” This time it was Harriet.

John nodded.

“Why can’t we just stay home? Harry and I are five and we can take care of ourselves. I can make cereal, and she can make sandwiches.”

John gave a weak smile and shook his head, motioning for them to join him at the door of the B level. “Because it’s not safe to be here by yourselves. And while your father’s pregnant, it’s not safe for him to be here either.”

“Why?” they asked in unison.

“I’ve already told you. There’s too many muggles-“

“But-“

He knelt down to their level once they finally came to him. He looked first Hudson, then Harriet in the eye. “You two are as smart as your father. You both know we’re not moving away. We’re going to be staying at one of the family homes in the West Country. Aunt Molly is going to look after the flat with my friend Mike. And your gran will be helping with your schooling when your father can’t. So, what are you really worried about?”

They looked down, hugging their toys. Watching them, picking apart the situation and their behavior, John realized what was wrong. “This is about the new baby, isn’t it?”

They didn’t answer. But matching eyes stole a glance up before looking back down at the floor.

He put a hand on each of their shoulders. They looked at him now. “Are you worried that when the baby gets here, we won’t have time for you anymore?”

Hudson glanced at Harriet.

“And you’re afraid that we’ll love the new baby more than you?”

Harriet glanced at Hudson.

“For the two smartest children in London, that’s pretty dumb thinking kids. We’re your parents, and we’re always going to love you no matter what. And I’m not going to lie to you-“

“Because we can always tell,” Harriet said much too sternly for a girl her age.

John nodded, and gave a very small laugh. He gently squeezed their shoulders with his hands. “Yes, you can. And you always wait for the most embarrassing time to point it out, too. But I won’t lie, kids. We’re going to be busy with the baby, and we won’t be able to spend so much time with you like we have been until he or she is a little older. But that doesn’t mean we love you any less than we do now. In fact,” he said. “We’re going to need your help taking care of the baby. You’re going to have to show them how to correct your father when he’s yelling at the telly. And make sure they can deduce things faster, too.”

They frowned. So John took a slightly different approach. “Harriet, you’re the oldest,” he said. “Remember what that means?”

She nodded slowly. “I have to look after Hudson.”

“That’s right sweetie. But now Hudson’s going to be an older brother. And you’ll have to show him how to be the big brother so he can help you. Just like father teaches me things so I can help him.”

The twins looked at one another briefly, communicating in that strange, silent way they have. Then, as one, they nodded. “Okay,” Hudson said. “We’ll try it. But if we don’t like it, I’m not sharing my toys.”

“And I’m not sharing my books.”

“Then that’s the best I can hope for,” John said, pulling them both closer and giving them a large hug. Even as Sherlock shouted at him from inside the flat about how late Molly was.

It wasn’t like they had to ride in a car. Or a train. In fact, once the small family of four with one on the way had left Baker Street in the care of Molly Hooper (not for the first time), they went straight to the home of Mycroft and Lestrade. From there, it was just a quick, but disorienting floo, to Potter’s Cottage.

**o0o**

Harriet and Hudson had spent the evening exploring the cottage as John and Sherlock got settled. Well… John was getting settled. Sherlock was busily rearranging furniture in the master bedroom as if it were the most logical thing in the world for him to do. When he tired of their room, he’d wanted to start on the twins’ room, but John put his foot down.

That and the house elf, Caddy, wouldn’t allow Sherlock to disturb any other room for fear of him hurting himself and the little Watson-Holmes on the way. That was the thing about house elves… they loved children. Especially babies. And they would get rather annoyed with pregnant people who didn’t calm down and relax.

When it was time for dinner, the four of them sat quietly in the kitchens, which turned out to be in the basement. Much like Grimmauld Place. When Hudson had pointed it out, Sherlock had explained that the home was built to the exact specifications of the previous Potter’s Cottage, which had been built during the period when it was fashionable in wizard homes to have the kitchens in the basement, well out of sight of proper company.

After the meal, John insisted on helping the house elf with the washing up, only to be chased off as if he’d insulted the poor creature’s mother. Relenting, John had gone up the stairs to the main level in search of his family.

He found them curled up in a sitting room, much different than the parlour where they had first arrived. This room was nice and cozy, decorated similarly to Harry’s personal study at the Manor. A mixture of muggle and magical knick-knacks adorned the shelves, along with books and photo frames filled with moving pictures of laughing men and playful children.

John stopped at a writing desk between the sofa where Sherlock was curled up at one end, nursing a cup of hot tea as Harriet and Hudson were sprawled out on the floor with books open. Quietly reading to themselves. He looked back at the desk, picking up a blue and silver frame. The boy in the photo was smirking up at him, and had it not been for that slight twitch at the corners of his mouth, John might have mistaken him for someone else. “You were adorable at that age.”

“Hm… Oh, yes. Twelve. Already the best in my year,” Sherlock said as John carried the picture over, looking at it as he sat. Sherlock stretched his legs out to lay them across his husband’s lap. “They look a bit like you already.”

“It’s the eyes, I think. Their cheekbones are more pronounced than yours as well, but not as sharp as mine.”

John laughed softly. “No. All the sharp edges went towards their wit and scathing tongues.”

Sherlock gave him that same twitch of a smile-smirk as the photograph. “Well, you did proclaim that our children would be short **and** smart.”

“I did not!” John protested, drawing their children’s attention from the books. “That was your godmother, those words. Besides, could have meant anyone. You tower over most of London.”

Sherlock sipped his tea, and let John slip back into his own thoughts as the family settled in for a quiet night.

**o0o**

John had been knackered by the time the twins usually went to bed. But the other three were yet to tire, and had protested quite stubbornly against the need for sleep. So John decided it would be best to leave them to their own devices.

Sherlock murmured a goodnight, giving him a nudge with a toe in the leg after he’d gotten up. “You’ll put them to bed soon?” had been his hopeful, parting remark. Sherlock had nodded.

The three waited until they heard all movement cease upstairs before the twins piled up on the couch with their father. Identical eyes to his own wide and waiting. “Story?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. However, you will no doubt see flaws in the next section of the tale. You must not point these out to me.”

“But-“

“Despite your higher level of intelligence than others your age, you are still children. These flaws exist because I have been editing the story to make it suitable for you.”

The twins whined in stereo. Sherlock held his hand up to silence them. “There will be no questions for clarification. No debates to be had. I promised your dad when we started to tell you this story that I would keep it clean and suitable for your age.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Hudson complained.

“Well, I could always put off the story until the two of you are of age.”

“But that’s… That’s ages away!” Harriet protested.

“Your choice.”

The two of them looked at one another. Sherlock watched their silent conversation. The twitch of eyebrows. The flaring of one nostril rather than both. The seconds between a blink and the slight twitch in a cheek. The wiggle of an ear. Though he had no twin of his own, he had used a similar form of communication with his own sister years ago, and could decipher the general meaning of these ticks and tells.

The pair of them were having a rather heated debate over what to do and how best to get what they wanted.

Finally, Hudson huffed, conceding defeat. “Fine… I’ll do it,” he muttered, then looked at their father. “We won’t complain on one condition.”

“Bargaining?… The act of a desperate man,” Sherlock mused.

“You have to promise us that when we’re older you or dad will tells us the Moriarty story AND all of the parts you’re not going to tell us about in this one.”

Sherlock pondered the condition. Yes, John and he had planned on explaining the past encounters with Moriarty to them at a later date, as there would be questions. They were children of men famous both as muggles and wizards, and they would need to understand the reasons. This, in its own way, was part of that tapestry of crime, murder, and deceit. Then, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You will be fully informed when your dad and I see fit to do so.”

The twins exchanged a look, then each held out their hands to him. He took them and gave a firm shake. Then, they settled in at the end of the couch, huddled together and giving him their full attention.

“Now then,” he said. “I believe we last left off with your dad and the dementor, and the dark wizards forcing me to watch him suffer. It was very upsetting.”

“How did you get free?” Harriet asked, eyes wide in childish wonder. “You saved him, of course you did. How’d you do it?”

Sherlock smiled, recalling the truncated version of the tale he’d woven together around the holes of his edits. “I nearly didn’t, had it not been, and I am loathe to admit, my brother and sister’s interference…”

* * *

Even if he hadn’t dropped his wand, he wouldn’t have been able to use it. Not like this. Arms pinned to his sides, the ropes coiling and crushing him in their serpentine hold. The rough fibers chaffing the exposed skin at his wrists and neck. He fought to retain consciousness as John was losing his. Even as the rope threatened to cut off his air as it rubbed against his neck.

The woman’s green eyes flashed in malice fueled triumph. Her high pitched laughter mingling with the dark utterances of her followers as they continued to chant their curses.

And it was painful. The most physical pain Sherlock had ever endured in his life. But he would give no satisfaction, if he could help it, by letting them see it in his features. Even if he were not under the silencing charm, he would not have given them the joys of hearing him scream.

Pride was not his reason for trying to maintain a semblance of control despite his situation.

His mind processed the pain the only way it could: comparison.

He compared the physical trauma, even now as a cruciatis was cast upon him, causing his face to twitch, but he continued to will his body from any more response than that. He compared this trauma to the long, aching pain he endured for three dark, terrible years. Physical pain, he could take. It was nothing compared to the damage he had caused his own mind… The crushing agony he had caused to his heart that even now, watching as John fell to his knees with the most soul-crushing wail, was breaking once again.

“If you’d only left him alone. Left him to me, he wouldn’t have to been made to suffer,” she hissed as the pain of the cruciatis was lifted, briefly. They parted just enough for her to approach. Just enough for this petite, vile woman to block his view. His breathing quickened now, as the panic that had threatened to consume him flooded the silent and sacred halls of his mind palace.

And as she leaned in, making just the tiniest gap in the ranks, he focused his gaze past her.

In all of his long years, mere adolescence compared to the woman before him, he had never encountered anything, anyone that stirred such strong responses from him. Only the thrill, the rush of The Work could compare, but even now The Work would forever be cast into shadow. The only thing, the only one in the entire world that could make Sherlock WANT to feel, was now a heap on the marble floor across the dining hall.

The dementor hovering over him; the muggle’s mouth open as the dementor moved in for a Kiss.

And that’s when he broke. Panic caught up into the tidal wave of uncontrollable rage that rolled off him. Wood splintered before the doors leading from the room were blown into the room in pieces. Glass rained from above as the elegant fixtures hanging from the ceiling shattered under the sudden swell of energy.

Black robes flitted about as those who had held him captive scrambled to protect their blond queen from those who flooded the room behind him. He could hear their voices, but did not focus on the words. Could not discern friend from foe save for the woman attempting retreat before him.

The ropes fell slack, and Sherlock was on his feet again, mouth open in a silent roar before the powerful silencing charm broke from his sheer force of will. Anger was not the word for it.

Behind him, he barely recognized the voice of a woman calling him. A length of wood was shoved into his hand, the silver reinforcement cool against his heated touch. He started for Mary as just that small spark of rationality reminded him that John came first.

The creature in him could hunt later. Could exact its revenge soon. But John came first.

 **Always** John.

He pivoted, breaking away from his chase and leaving her to Lily and the injured Mycroft as he made for John. Wand raised and voice threaded with a predatory howl, the words leaving his lips only microseconds before the silvery light burst from the tip of his ash wood wand. _“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_

What began as a simple happy memory changed from a shield of misty light, filling him completely as the mist took shape. An unusually large teacup appeared, which even for a patronus was unusual, and even caught its creator by surprise. A nose followed before the cup fell over in the direction of the dementor. In a flash whatever creature had been inside bounded out, a flurry of striped jumper and quills… And the size of a child. When it was close enough to John and the dementor it curled in and pitched itself forward to close the distance more quickly.

When it uncurled, giving a bit of an awkward jump with jaws open to bite the wraith, the creature backed off.

“Severus!”

He didn’t look to see who called him. Only registered that it was male. But it was enough to shake him back to partial functionality of his senses as hexes and jinxes whizzed around him.

“See to your mate!”

Despite the aches in his bones and the fire in his muscles, Sherlock followed the path of his unusual patronus, never lowering his wand as it refused to let the creature escape. He clung to that happy memory, holding it at the forefront of his mind as a sort of cushion against what he feared most. What he feared, even as he knelt by his only friend’s side, he had now lost forever.

But he had to divert his attention. He had to check. He had to make sure John was still…

A mongoose and a rabbit joined the hedgehog in its relentless attack, and finally Sherlock could lower his wand and focus. Willing his panic and his fear to stand aside, but only managing the faint semblance of rational sanity as he saw that John was indeed still breathing. His skin was cold to the touch, but still breathing… Did it, perhaps…

“No… No. No no _**no**_!” he roared in desperation as he pulled the muggle into his arms, holding him tightly with ashen eyes clenched tightly shut.

Laughter.

He opened his eyes again, head snapping around to search the room quickly for the source. There, pinned in the corner. A shock of blond. Green met ash for just an instant in recognition and Sherlock was on his feet again.

“Severus! NO!” It was Mycroft. That time he was certain, as he had seen the man when he’d shouted, just before feeling the pull at his navel and the sense of movement. But his mind was focused on only one thing. For once, he thought of only one goal rather than a myriad of possibilities.

Dissaparating in a black cloud only to reappear again, a roll of thunder and black mist in his wake. Hand outstretched and clamping tightly onto a soft, smooth throat before the rest of him had reappeared. Panic replaced with rage. Rage replaced with hatred. And as he tightened his grip on Mary Morstan’s throat in just the split second it took to appear and dissaparate again, he knew exactly what it was he would do to the woman who’d lost him his John.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Two days passed before anyone knew what had happened.

Aurors were in and out of the manor. Many attempted to trace the younger Potter-Malfoy son’s distinct and unique magical signature. But the family knew he would not be found. Not until he was ready.

Lily did her best to make John comfortable in her brother’s old rooms. Mycroft worked with his parents on trying to contain the damage. Those that had survived the unprovoked attack either worked at helping track down any of the dark wizards whom had escaped, or joined in the search for Sherlock. Others helped, as best they could, clear away the debris and patch up the manor.

The first scrap of news had been a statement from, of all places, the Ministry of Magic’s department of the Control of Magical Creatures. It had been made to the Daily Prophet shortly after the discovery of Mary Morstan’s head on a pike, proudly on display at the entrance of the Forest of Dean.

The second scrap of news had been Sherlock’s reappearance at the manor later that same day. Covered in mud and dirt, and rather strangely in his right mind. No trace of a vicious, angry creature that had left on Christmas Eve with the woman.

Sherlock had tried to slip into the large house quietly. Wanted to clean himself up before presenting himself before anyone. Unfortunately, due to the state he had been in at his departure, as well as the sensitivity of the new protective wards, the man was accosted before he even passed the entry hall.

The tall, exhausted detective was nearly knocked over as the petite red head threw herself at him. Her arms wrapping around him tightly as she sobbed in relief. He remained still. Cold and unresponsive.

“Oh Severus! Sev, you’re alive! You’re okay! When… When they found… We were so worried! I told them you can’t help it. I tried to tell them you… You were protecting your mate. Your Nymphae instincts-“

“That will be enough, Lilian.”

She looked up into her brother’s face, but he was looking beyond. Towards the grand staircase where a ragged and tired looking Harry Potter stood. Holly wand out, but not pointed towards them. She clung tighter, but did release him when he tried to push her away.

“Sev?…”

He cleared his throat, turning his full attention to Harry. “Mother,” he said, still cold. Still hard. “I assume the remains have been found.”

Green eyes narrowed, and Sherlock felt the probing of legilimens at the edges of his mind. Normally he would never allow such an intrusion. His mind was and always had been his own. His palace. His sanctuary. Yet given the circumstances, he understood. He also knew better than to challenge the most powerful wizard in the world. Taking a deep breath, he gave a small nod and allowed it. He didn’t like it, but he allowed it just the same.

Even helped by recalling the events of the two days. From the moment he took Mary from the manor to the duel immediately following. He supplied additional information as well. Such as the location of the island he had dragged her to using apparition. The creatively dark curses he’d used during that duel to maim and subdue her before at last besting her.

“You let her live,” Harry said, unable to hide the relief in his voice before probing deeper.

Calmly. “I did. I am no monster, mother. Despite my… condition.”

“Then why…”

He drew a deep breath and called up the next block of memories from the basement vaults of his mind palace. With these, Harry frowned deeply.

“My apologies,” Sherlock said, pushing those aside. “I had not meant to… She was part of a greater web. Those men were her own mates.”

Harry nodded his understanding, but did not break eye contact as he sifted through the ones behind the rather disturbing images in his son’s head. He could see that Sherlock had indeed let the woman live, but had left her in the care of…

“A council of sorts,” Sherlock explained. “In India, those like us are protected. I thought it best she be handled by others similar to ourselves. There is a chapter here in England. They were the ones who applied the penalties of the laws she has broken. As a wizard, I avenged my family. As a creature, I had the right to do the deed myself. But I am no monster,” he repeated this last statement. Almost as if to assure himself rather than Harry.

Finally, the moments immediately before his arrival to the manor were allowed to be seen before Harry broke contact. Looking away and moving his glasses to rub at his eyes. Finally, he looked at his son again. “Tell me Severus,” he said. “For everything she’s done, did she deserve death?”

“It is not my place to decide who lives and who dies. Certainly the Nymphae in me would have loved to rip her limb from limb. We do not share, and we do not allow others of our breed to encroach upon our territory.”

“John is not a posession,” Harry said firmly, raising his wand just a little. Sherlock could read him easily, and knew his mother did not want to raise his wand against him. But… he would. He was. Because he felt that right now, despite the calm demeanor and non-hostile appearance, he could snap at any moment. He had seen it happen often enough before John. And now with muggles in the house, defenseless, he would do what he had to do.

Sherlock raised both hands up, showing he had no intent to reach for the wand up his sleeve. He moved slowly to the bottom stair as Lily watched silently from the side. Silently pleading with the both of them to stop this.

“No,” Sherlock said. “He is not a posession. He is a living being. But he is the single most important being on this planet, and the only person for whom I have ever shown self restraint and sincere fondness. His happiness and safety are my sole concern.”

He took the first steps slowly. Never looking away from Harry as he climbed the staircase. He stopped half-way, still with hands in the air. Behind him he heard Lily moving to follow him.

“Mother, please,” she pleaded from below. “He’s not… He’s not going to hurt anyone. He’s fine now.”

“Lilian-“

“He couldn’t help it! He-“

“Lilian that will be enough!”

“No! Listen to me!” the young woman shouted angrily, and even Harry could feel the sudden burst of magic flowing off her as she stormed up the steps past her brother, situating herself between parent and sibling. “If that had been father, would you not have done the same!? Have you forgotten how dangerous YOU can be when you’re upset? How dangerous you ARE?!”

She glared angrily at Harry, taking a few more steps up towards him. “ _Sherlock_ ” she said, emphasising the name the man had made very clear he preferred during his stay, “Nearly lost the only person that’s more important to him than YOU are! And do you want to know something, mother? The stupid berk hasn’t even told John anything! The poor bastard has no idea how much Sherlock’s done to keep him safe and happy! Especially after realizing that John’s not just someone he happens to fancy, but he’s the ONLY one, you stupid old blast ended skrewt! The only one in the whole bloody world and you know what my idiot brother’s done? He’s pumped himself full of potions that turn him into this… this cold, unfeeling, detatched and hateful excuse of a man. Because John bloody Watson’s friendship is more important to him than his own stupid weird creature needs!” Finally, she stopped for breath, but did not give much time for a response before continuing on in her self-rightious rage. “So the next time you go pointing a wand at someone because they’re so bloody dangerous, you just go and point it at yourself because that’s where we’ve learned it from you… you… I’m so angry I can’t even continue to insult you properly!” she snapped at a now very wide eyed Harry. “Expect a very thorough howler when I do figure out a proper way to complete my scathing insults. And I don’t care that you’re my mother. You could be Lord Voldemort and I’d still give you a proper shouting!”

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat as she whirled on him. “And you, brother mine, have a lot of explaining to do. AFTER you have assured yourself that John is both alive and in one piece. The healers saw to him after it was over and the dementor never quite finished thanks to your… bizzare patronus. Which you will also be explaning, hopefully, to me if not our brother so that SOMEONE knows what the bloody hell is going on with you!”

Both men were quiet as the last of her words echoed through the entry hall. Sherlock still with hands in the air. Harry reeling from the verbal lashing from his daughter. But… he did lower his wand uncertainly.

* * *

“…So once Lily had managed to settle down, she finally allowed me to see your dad. She had insisted that mummy go have a cup of tea and wait a full day before aproaching me again. As if I were some wild beast with which a careful hand was needed.”

Harriet snickered behind her hand, causing Sherlock to raise a brow in question. “Oh?” he said, letting the question dangle in the air.

Hudson was grinning. “You are a wild beast,” he said. “At least, according to daddy.”

The faintest pink blossomed on his cheeks. Quickly he tried to smooth over the subject. “Yes, well, I’ll be having words with him about his language while you two are home and supposed to be asleep.”

The pair of them giggled at their father’s brief moment of discomfort before settling down again. “So what happened next?” Harriet asked after her brother had elbowed her. “I mean, was daddy okay?”

“Obviously. He is alive and well and in the bedroom.”

“No,” Hudson whined, much in the same fashion as his father when told he can’t go visit a crime scene. “In the story! What did grandfather Draco say when he saw you? What about Uncle Mycroft? And Daddy? And-“

“That,” Sherlock interrupted him before he started naming other people from their story. “Will wait for tomorrow night. We’re actually quite tired.”

Little eyes watched his hand as he briefly patted his abdomen, and they knew that he knew that they would resign themselves to go to bed. “Fine,” they huffed together before he stood and herded them from the room.

Once tucked into their beds, they waited until they could hear no more sound in the house before whispering back and forth to one another. “So he was gone for two days, and the lady turned up dead,” Harriet said from her bed, propping herself up on her elbow and turning in the dark to face her brother’s bed. “And he said he didn’t do it. Someone else did.”

“Yeah,” Hudson replied. “But he also said there’s parts he won’t tell us until we’re older. That one’s a bit fishy to me.”

“You think he really did do it?”

The boy thought about it for a moment. He applied every bit of logic he knew to that part of the story. “We could ask gran if it’s true.”

“But he won’t tell us either. Because daddy and father warned everyone not to tell certain things. If it’s one of them, they’ll lie.”

“But we can always tell when they lie.”

“Doesn’t mean we’ll get the truth.”

Hudson thought on it for a moment longer before nodding in the dark. “Yeah… I don’t think father did it. After all, remember what he said about the difference between a soldier and a murderer when we asked if daddy killed people before?”

Harriet nodded back. “Soldiers protect people, and don’t really want to do it. But they will if they have to. That’s why daddy doesn’t talk about Afghanistan.”

“And murderers like Mr. Moriarty,” Hudson continued, “Do it because it’s fun and they can. And father would never be like Mr. Moriarty. He solves crimes and helps people. He’s been very stern and clear about that.”

It was Harriet’s turn to think it through. Turning over the story in her mind, and pulling past evidence and information from the ever expanding recesses of her own little mind castle. “Well,” she said finally, almost too quietly for her twin to hear her. “Father loves daddy more than anything in the world. More than solving puzzles even. And he’s always so protective of him, too, even though daddy was a soldier and can take care of himself.”

“So you’re saying that, if in the right circumstances…”

“If he was protecting daddy, or us, then maybe. And he’s a creature, remember? Aunt Lily explained it to us before, about how he can’t help it if he thinks his family’s in danger. All evidence, and clues from the story point in that direction.”

“But,” Hudson said, “I still don’t think he did it. Because father would never leave evidence. And clearly the… remains were in plain sight. As if someone wanted the world to see what would happen. It was a warning to anyone who tried to do the same in the future. If it were father, he would have covered it up and not let anyone know what he was doing for those two days. He allowed gran to use the spell to look at his memories. He would never do that if he wasn’t being truthful.”

“Because clearly father never lies.”

“You can lie with words, Harry. But you can’t lie with the mind. You can repress, and you can bury and ignore, but you can never, ever lie.”

“Lie by omission.”

“Again,” Hudson said. “You can only hide what’s in the mind, but you cannot omit it.”

“Father deletes information all the time.”

“There is always a residual memory. He claims to know nothing of the solar system, yet he knew enough to see that the painting was incorrect, and to look it up online. That inevitably led to the Van Buren supernova.”

“Ah… So you’re essentially stating that if father had dispatched his rival for daddy’s affections himself, and then deleted the information and evidence in his mind palace of actually doing it, gran would have been able to see the changes in the memories themselves,” she said, excitement at the realization causing her voice to raise. “Even if father had deliberately replaced them with something else, the underlying traces would bleed through, causing inconsistencies in the available evidence and making the differences between fact and fiction more obvious!” She was sitting up now, eyes wide and mouth twisted into a victorious smile.

“Oh you’re brilliant, you are!” she cried to her brother just as the door opened and a very tired John stood in the light from the hallway.

“Oi!” he snapped, getting their attention. Both children looked over at him sheepishly. Harriet crawled back under her blankets. “It’s three in the morning and I don’t care if you’re debating world peace or the existence of Big Foot. We’re trying to sleep.”

In chorus the twins said, “Yes dad,” with a hint of guilt in their voices.

“Good. Now the next time I have to come in here,” he said, rubbing at his eyes blearily. “Someone’s going to get their own room and there won’t be any more of these nightly brain thinking party things.”

“Yes dad,” they replied once more.

“Now go to sleep.” He started to close the door, then stopped for a moment with a sneaky, sleepy smile. “And for the record, it wasn’t your father. She was punished by the _Council of Rare and Legendary Magical Creature Breeds_ , the members of whom take the protection of rare magical creatures **very** seriously.”

He closed the door behind him, leaving two silent, stunned children in the darkness of their bedroom.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Harriet raced her brother down the stairs when John called out for breakfast. The story from the night before was still swirling around in their little heads as they worked together trying to puzzle out the missing pieces over eggs, bacon, and toast with a lovely blackberry jam.

Orange juice was included.

Sherlock ate a rather odd assortment of wizard confections atop a pile of Mongolian beef. The children had pulled faces, but Sherlock had rebuffed their comments and questioning stares, stating that it was delicious. John shook his head and ate his breakfast while checking his e-mail.

That was one of the few things he would always be grateful to Mycroft for. The old home was fitted with wifi and a telly in the bedroom. The computers would keep Sherlock busy for a while, but the telly would come in handy when the man would be stuck on bed rest for the last few months.

Just the thought of it sent a shiver of apprehension down his spine.

“You’re staring into space John,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of treats and beef.

“Ah… Just thinking.”

“Has the world stopped turning?” his husband asked with a bit of his usual snark.

John rolled his eyes as the children snickered, more attuned to their father’s humour than their dad’s. “No. But I thought the little detectives might want to explore the village. I don’t know my way around, and since you’ve been here before…”

“I’m busy today,” Sherlock said, setting down his fork and dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. At least his manners hadn’t gone to pot just yet. Without looking at the crestfallen faces of the twins, he continued. “However, I may be able to find the time for an evening stroll. Provided I am through arranging the parlour and the spare room and-“

“Okay. No. Not so much in one day Sher. Pick one room, and deal with that.”

He looked put out, then hissed through his teeth, picked up his fork, and resumed eating.

John sighed, knew he’d be kept up all night having useless information recited at him now that Sherlock was in a mood. He sipped his tea quietly.

Across the table from him the twins were having their own silent discussion before Hudson pinched his sister, who yelped in surprise.

Without looking up, Sherlock said, “Hudson, don’t abuse your sister. She’s currently the only one you have.”

Their eyes went wide. “So it’s going to be a girl?!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I hope it’s a boy,” Harriet said. “I don’t want to share my dresses.”

“You don’t like your dresses,” Hudson complained.

“So? I still don’t want to share them,” she replied, giving her brother a pinch when he wasn’t expecting it.

“Stop abusing your brother, Harriet,” Sherlock said. Hudson made to pinch his sister again, but was prevented from doing so by the fact his chair slid down to the end of the table, putting two feet more between them.

“Sherlock, don’t use magic on the children,” John said, sipping his tea but otherwise seeming to not pay attention. “I don’t want to have to floo them to St. Mungos for spell damage.”

The remainder of breakfast went by in this manner before finally Sherlock, in a huff, took his plate upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind him moodily.

Harriet sighed. “Do we still get to take an evening stroll with father today?”

“More importantly,” Hudson added, “Do we get to hear more of the story before bed?”

John shrugged, closing his laptop and rising from the table to clear their dishes away before the house elf noticed and did it for them. “Well,” he said. “Where did your father leave off last night?”

“Two days after Christmas Eve,” the girl supplied, with her brother nodding in agreement. “Aunt Lily had just told off gran.”

“Well…” John said, taking their plates. “It depends on if your father’s in a talkative mood later.”

“Couldn’t you tell us?”

“Nope. I was still asleep from the attack.”

“For how long?” Hudson pouted.

“Another day.”

“So you could tell us more after that instead!” Harriet supplied.

John shook his head and gave them a small, knowing smile. “You’ll want to hear the next bit before that, I think. Besides, I’m sure you’ve always wondered why your father and grandfather don’t get along very well.”

They looked at one another, and gasped at the same time before turning their eyes back to John as he left the dining room. “We’ll… We’ll finally get to know?!” Hudson breathed, then his sister added, beginning their alternating speech.

“I know father’s always been upset that grandfather tried to make him marry someone else-“

“But there’s always been an underlying resentment-“

“Resulting from the inability to meet-“

“Unknown expectations and obligations,” Hudson finished, with a nod from his sister.

When John returned moments later, he too was in a bit of a mood. “Ruddy house elf… I do my dishes a certain way and that… that little thing keeps insisting I’m not doing them right.”

The twins smirked, giving one another a small laugh before sliding out of their seats to go begin their studies for the day. Without their father’s lectures and assignments, they confined themselves to revision of past material, starting with their Latin.

**o0o**

Sherlock eventually shook himself out of his foul mood with much application of John’s curried ice cream and the opportunity to educate his children on the Wizarding World, in which they now must function for the duration of his pregnancy. Despite his usual disdain and dissatisfaction with the wizarding side of things, he felt that if he left it up to John the children would fare better wandering around outside alone.

Which he would never allow. No matter how self conscious he suddenly felt about his appearance.

No matter, the liberal theft of John’s baggiest jumper and he was ready to take on the world.

The small family had walked around the village, while Sherlock explained the finer points of interest. They had just returned to the village square when he began to explain that Godric’s Hollow was one of the many small villages where wizards and muggles cohabitated. They’d been walking for quite a while, and upon spotting a bench near a large stone memorial, Sherlock declared they all had to stop so he could sit down. He sat down, leaving room for John beside him. Harriet climbed into her dad’s lap while Hudson slipped in on Sherlock’s other side.

It was Hudson who asked the first question in this small reprieve. “If muggles live here, too, that means the wizards cannot perform magic. It’s against the law, and that’s why we had to come here, because if people saw you…” He trailed off.

“While that is true in most places,” Sherlock began, using the same tone he had during his lectures. “Godric’s Hollow is one of the very few places where magic may be used freely before muggles, provided it is within reason. No dark magic, of course.”

“Unless it can’t be proven that it’s dark,” Harriet supplied quietly.

Sherlock nodded. “We’ll just keep that to ourselves yes.” He smiled, patting her arm. She smiled back, settling against John’s chest and using him as a chair and pillow. “As I was saying, the wizards in this village may use magic in front of muggles within reason. Small spell work for day to day activities has been encouraged since the 1960s. This is part of the Ministry’s muggle department’s attempt to foster familiarity and friendship between the two worlds. In this way, we can ease muggles into the understanding that magic is, unfortunately, very real and there are those who can use it. It is also an excellent location used to introduce muggle born witches and wizards to the culture and environment to which they now belong. Many are brought to villages just like this prior to their enrollment at Hogwarts so that they may more easily acclimatize themselves rather than face the sudden culture shock like your dad.”

Hudson peered around his father to John’s laughing face. “It’s true. I think for the first two days I just kept shouting at your father in confusion.” Sherlock nodded, then added with a fond smile. “He kept insisting it was all a dream during a coma sustained from an unknown injury from a previous case.”

Harriet giggled while her brother snickered. “Yeah,” she said. “We know. You’ve said it in the story.”

“Okay,” Hudson said, drawing his parents’ attention back to him. “But what’s to stop the muggles that live here from telling everyone else about this place and the people like us?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Sherlock said. “One you should pose to your uncle. That’s more Mycroft’s area than mine. I deleted that information when I left my very brief job at the Ministry.” The three of them nodded in understanding as Sherlock plowed ahead. “Now, while the wizards that reside here are immensely useful to the muggles, the muggles are also useful to the wizards. Muggle borns are brought here to spend the summers to help them learn of the culture. But the Wizarding world has always been a very secretive, isolationist society. Tell me what use the muggles serve in villages like this one.” He paused. “And asking your dad is cheating.”

Harriet beamed happily. “That’s easy! We’ll use ourselves as an example,” she said. “You are a wizard, and we are wizards as well. Dad is a muggle. Through you, we have access to vast stores of knowledge and information of our very proud and very old family.”

Hudson picked up when she’d finished. “Which as we get older will help us more easily adapt to the wizarding world and the school which we will attend. You are Godric’s Hollow. However, we live in muggle London. Surrounded by muggles and squibs. Our dad is a muggle. And from him we gain an advantage over the other children who were raised solely in the wizarding world. Dad introduces us to muggle medicine, customs, and science. In a sense, he is a small-scale representation of all the muggles in this village.”

“Therefore,” his sister picked up from him. “It can be said that the muggles of Godric’s Hollow not only help smooth the way for the muggle born children, giving them a point of reference, but they also aid squibs and wizards in their integration into muggle society so that if for instance, a wizard who has never been to muggle London tries to shop at Tesco, he may not be completely familiar with our money but he will have at least a basic working knowledge of it and not stick out more than your average eccentric would.”

John and Sherlock were silent. Sherlock’s face had slipped into a mask of concentration. Then, he slowly nodded. “Very good for a first attempt,” he said, which the three others knew to be the equivalent of Sherlock being quite impressed with them. “We will, of course, go over the concept in depth during your studies. There are more complex muggle-wizard relationships you did not touch on-“

“Sherlock,” John said, a slight warning beneath his playful tone.

He nodded, noting it and changing gears from analysis to positive reinforcement. Something he would rarely do for anyone other than his own children. And even then, only when corrected by his husband. “But otherwise your observations and analogous examples were good.”

Preening at their father’s praise, the twins sat quietly as they listened to him continue on. John was just as enthralled by the information as the children. He found it rather comforting that the village Sherlock had chosen had seen its fair share of pregnant wizards. That was one of the things he worried about most the first time. One of the reasons Sherlock had to keep to their rooms when they’d stayed at Hogwarts. The man had gone stir-crazy after a week in the castle. But here… Here he could go outside even if he was the size of a planet and sure some of the muggles would give him the occasional odd looks, but it wasn’t too unusual for the area.

He’d nearly missed it when his husband had gotten back to his feet. They didn’t live too terribly far from the square, another godsend as far as John was concerned. He could walk just about anywhere he needed.

Harriet was tugging on her dad’s arms as Sherlock crossed his impatiently over his larger than normal bump hidden beneath the jumper. “Come on dad!” she exclaimed as Hudson was pointing to the memorial that, even now he could see it morphing from a solid stone block into three seated figures. A man, a woman, and-

“My grandparents,” Sherlock said, noticing John’s amazed expression. “The Potters.”

John looked at him with wide eyes first, then they softened into well-worn concern. Sherlock shook his head. Then came the silent question that only years together, or a very obsessive and observant consulting detective’s very dedicated boredom, could decipher. The “how could I even see that” expression. No doubt, Sherlock assumed, another scrap of information his husband remembered from reading the muggle book series.

His answer was quick. Ashen gaze cutting to look at John’s wrist, indicating the silver cuff he still wore, hidden beneath the his sleeve. Then back to his face again and a small nod.

John’s smile of confirmation as he let himself be dragged closer to it. Sherlock followed with Hudson, and they stood, watching it move in its loop. “This,” Sherlock explained, “was erected in honor of your great grandparents after the first fall of Lord Voldemort.”

He stood behind Hudson, a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. The little face turned up to look at him, a look of deep thought on his face. “She looks a lot like aunt Lily.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” John asked, leaning forward to peer closer at it. “Lily’s a bit more sharp angles, like your father. Gets that from Draco.”

Harriet pointed up at the statue, looking at Sherlock as she did. “Is that gran?”

He nodded. “Yes. That was your gran as a baby. He lived here a very long time ago on the very same lot where we are currently living.”

“That man’s hair is just like yours,” Hudson observed. “But he looks like gran.”

“Are there any statues of the Malfoys?” Harriet asked innocently.

Sherlock shook his head quickly. “No.”

“What about pai-“

“John,” he said, talking over his daughter. “I do believe it is nearly time for dinner.”

“It’s only-“

“I’m hungry, and I do not want that house elf touching my food,” he snapped abruptly, stepping away from them and starting towards the cottage.

Harriet looked up at John with a frown. “I upset him.”

“It’s not your fault sweetheart,” he said.

“She only asked him a question. It was perfectly reasonable and-“

John sighed, taking one hand each and walking with them a little ways behind his husband, who was now looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t need to snap at them to follow him. “Look. It’s not your fault. He gets… He’s going to get a lot worse before this is over.”

Harriet considered this. “Was he… temperamental with us?”

“Oh yes,” John replied. “It’s unfortunately very normal for anyone in his position.”

Hudson squeezed his dad’s hand. “Don’t worry. We can always put him in front of crap telly.”

His dad chortled and his sister’s mood brightened immensely. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that just yet,” John said as they hurried to catch up.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the severe delay in chapters. One of the writers has been having serious health issues and was hiding it from the other. So... we're working around that now.  
> \-----------  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Quick, light footsteps on the old carpet.

"Harry... We're not supposed to be up here," hissed a voice.

"Says uncle Myc," replied another hushed voice. "Now come on."

"We really shouldn't-"

"It's just storage stuff, Hud. Besides, I bet there's some really strange wizard stuff up here."

A creak of floorboards caused the little feet and voices to stop briefly. "Harry," came that hushed voice again. "Let's go back down. Dad-"

"Told us to go find something to do while he talks to father. Now come on. We're almost there."

The fast little feet were moving again, hurrying to the end of the hall on the third floor, with every intention of continuing on to the attic.

That was, until they heard a cough from beside them. Hudson jumped in surprise, his sister turning and putting herself between the noise and her brother protectively. Then she frowned. "What was that?"

"Let's go back downstairs. We can play detectives-"

"Don't be a baby Hud," she said, still looking around with a frown on her face. "It was nothing."

Another cough, as if the clearing of a throat. "Don't think you two could reach the attic steps."

Harriet's head whipped around, ash eyes scanning the hall as her brother pointed to the wall. "I... It's one of those moving ones," he said to his sister, drawing her attention to the large, ornate frame just a few feet from them. He edged closer to get a better look. "Oh! That's-"

"Dark, unmanageable hair. Glasses. Judging by the thickness of the lenses I'd say prescription. The frames are early 1900s. Perhaps older," Harriet cut in. "Auror's robes, but," she said. "The pin, just there, beneath the edge of the robes. Hudson, do you see it? The silver pin?"

"Wings. A bird," he said, looking closer as the man in the painting stared down at them with a warm, eerily familiar smile. The man raised a hand to move the bit of robe hiding the main body of the pin. "Hm... A phoenix. The painting done of the former Lord Black has one as well. Pinned to the lapel of his suit jacket. Order of the Phoenix, right?" He looked up at the man's face, searching his memory carefully for the stories his grandparents had told them often.

"Obviously," Harriet said boredly. "Where's great grandmother? There's only one other portrait in the house, and that is of Remus Lupin in the parlour. Mr. Lupin was not in residence when we passed through the room."

He chuckled. "Well well... I don't need to question who you belong to," the man said.

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Come on. We need to find a way to reach the attic steps. I'm sure there must be a chair in one of the rooms nearby. We could bring it out and climb up and-"

"So where is great grandmother?" Hudson asked curiously.

"Visiting our other painting."

"At the manor?"

"Well, yes. How-"

"Because there isn't one at Grimmauld. The only one he allows in the house is Sirius Black because it's the only one that doesn't frighten him. He's always been afraid of wizard's portraits, apparently. Mrs. Black and all..."

The man, Mr. Potter, nodded. "Oh yes. She would frighten anyone." He turned his head as if looking down the hall to where Harriet stood, trying to sort out how to get into the attic. "Even if you can get the steps down, child you'll need the password to get past the wards."

"What is up there? Nothing dangerous, I hope. That's why we've come to stay here. Because Baker Street is too dangerous for father right now."

"Nothing dangerous, no. But not for children just the same."

"Harry, I've got an idea," Hudson said, his eyes widening as he realized this was a golden opportunity. He turned his full attention back to his great grandfather's portrait. "Why does no one talk about the Malfoys?"

Brown eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he looked out on the boy. "You're too young."

"We are not. Why does everyone say that? We're five," Harriet snapped as she aproached, now drawn away from her plans of getting into the attic. For now, at least. "And I'll bet my whole allowance that we're smarter than you, too."

"Oh really now? Is that so?"

"Of course. Why, I even know that you'd had treacle tart while this painting was made. Most likely during a five minute break to stretch your legs and loosen your stiff limbs. Standing in that position for prolonged periods of time is bound to have been hellish on your legs, despite your fitness. How do I know you had something to eat during the break? You've a smudge, right here." She touched the corner of her mouth. "It could be lipstick from your wife. Sharing a brief kiss. But unlikely. The residue would have been too faint for the artist to have noticed the difference in shade. Why? Because Lily Potter's complexion was rather fair, and to have a dark and heavy color such as maroon or even red would have been too much for midday. Therefore she must have been wearing a lighter color such as rose or pink. An appropriate color for daytime wear. Given the time period in which you lived, it would have lacked the chemical compounds used in today's make up to keep from smearing. So no, it's not lipstick from your wife. It's a food then. Some sort of sauce.

"What could be eaten in five minutes or less, temporarily satisfy your hunger for a few hours more while the artist places the finishing touches on the portrait? It had to be something small. Something that could fit in your hand. It wasn't pastry because the crumbs just below your chin are not flaky. Not pastry, but definitely something with bread. The color of the sauce at the corner of your mouth suggests something a bit golden in color, as it stands out slightly from your natural skin tone. The crumbs are more bread like, however you did not have bread." She stopped to catch her breath. "So, treacle tart. The consistency of the bread crumbs is a bit sticky, therefore they would be difficult to wipe off if they had been noticed. Seeing as how they remain in the painting, they were not noticed at all. Being a wizard, you could have easily just cast a _scourgify_ on your robes to clear away the mess. But how could it be treacle tart if I said there's no flaky crumbs? The crust of the tart is made of pastry dough. True, but according to information given to us from Sirius Black's portrait at Number Twelve during a previous conversation concerning sweets and treats in the wizarding world, James Potter couldn't stand crust, and would often scoop pie fillings out with a spoon. On this day, you had no spoon available, so you did the best you could with your teeth. Despite the ability to transfigure any object into the utensil you may have needed at the time. Have I gotten anything wrong yet?"

The portrait was silent, staring from the girl to her twin, who had an equally curious look on his face as his sister. They looked back at the painted man expectantly. Waiting for confirmation.

"Well," he said after a long moment. "I... That was..."

"While amazing and stupendously brilliant deductive reasoning on your part, I think it's time we leave poor Mr. Potter alone. Don't you?"

The twins froze at the sound of their dad's voice. The portrait man laughed, thought it was a little awkward. "No, no. It's quite alright. That was rather ingenious, young lady. What was your name again?"

"Harriet," she said proudly. "I'm named after my aunt. Hudson's named after our old landlady."

James Potter chuckled from his picture frame. "Well now, it was my pleasure to meet you both. You're just as sharp as Severus ever was."

Hudson frowned. "Father prefers to be called Sherlock."

"I'm sure he does. With a name like he's got... Well, can't say Harry's ever had much in the way of common sense."

"Come on now." John shook his head, stopping halfway between his children and the stairs. "You two aren't supposed to be up here anyway. Third floor is off limits."

"But why?!" they whined.

"Because your grandparents said so, that's why. Now hop to. Unless you don't want to hear the story tonight."

The pair of them hesitated. But at the antique painting's urging they shuffled down the stairs with their dad. Already plotting when next to visit the painted man and hopefully get some of their questions about the Malfoys answered.

**o0o**

Sherlock had been waiting for them in the sitting room, frowning as he skimmed through an article on the computer. When the door into the room creaked, he didn't look up. "What took you so long?"

"I found them on the top floor talking to your grandfather," John said.

His husband's frown deepened as the children slunk into the room, sliding up onto the empty space at the end of the sofa. "I thought all of the portraits except Lupin had been removed before our arrival. Mycroft assured me-"

"I don't know. I don't care. What I do care about is the story," Harriet barked from her place on the other side of her brother. "Because it's the only bloody thing anyone is willing to tell us about. Now hop to it."

"Harriet Wynnona!" John admonished. "Young lady, you will not use that tone with-"

Sherlock chuckled as Hudson pressed himself further into the cushions. "Come off it John. She's right. We're certainly not sharing the information she wants to hear, despite having been told repeatedly that it is not fit for children's' ears."

"That's still no reason," John said, hands on his hips and staring at their daughter. "For her to talk to us that way."

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave, closing the laptop and setting it on the floor beside the sofa. He knew this argument wasn't one he was going to win. And neither was their rather uppity little girl. "Harry, apologize for upsetting your dad."

"But-"

"No buts. Now. Or I shall not tell you a story."

"Fine," she bit out, looking at John with a frown. "I'm sorry for expressing my dissatisfaction at being treated like an ignorant child. And for having an intellect far superior to others in my age grouping, and thus able to understand concepts most adults find far too complicated and confusing." She crossed her arms over her chest, turned her head to the side, and gave an exaggerated pout.

John crossed his arms over his chest and succeeded only in looking quite cuddly in his jumper rather than the stern look he was going for. After a long few moments of silence, with Hudson and Sherlock waiting to see who would give in first, it was Harriet who sighed. "Fine..." she said, rolling her eyes and looking back at John, actually meaning her apologetic words this time. "I'm sorry. But it's just so frustrating when people assume that I won't be able to und-"

"Harriet," Sherlock said in a warning tone. John nodded. "Budge over then," the cuddly jumper dad said. Sherlock pulled his legs in, making just a bit more room for the twins to scoot and make room.

Once everyone was settled, Sherlock began.

"As you know, I had been absent from the manor for two days. John and I had intended to return to Baker Street on Boxing Day; however that had not gone according to plan. Once Lily had led me past mother, there had been yet two more obstacles between myself and your dad. The first had been John's persistent unresponsive state following the attack on Christmas Eve. The second, and far more trouble-making, was called _veritaserum_..."

* * *

He listened as Lily prattled on about what had happened in his absence. But Sherlock only paid attention to the reports on John's health interspersed among the facts and figures of the guests and family. Mycroft had been healed quite quickly with little complication. He would, however, retain a slight limp. Their father's injuries had been more severe, and the man was on bed rest for his own good (though as they passed the master suite his protests to the contrary could be heard rather loudly in the hall).

They stopped just outside Sherlock's boyhood room before he bothered to speak. "Who has been tending him?"

Lily rolled her eyes with an annoyed huff. "If you'd been listening at all... I'm the only one. Thought you would appreciate my not letting strangers get their mitts on him. Now come on. I've got to check him over. Not that there's going to be much of a change."

Sherlock's expression darkened, deepening in concentration as he quickly scanned her face for any information, only to find very little. She was frustrated. With him, it seemed. Questions she needed answered and it was clear Mycroft hadn't enlightened her in his absence.

"Stop that," she snapped, reaching out to pinch his arm like she'd done when they were children. The sudden sharp pain as she would twist that small bit of skin and dig in her nails with the turn had always been the fastest, most irritating way of pulling him back out of his mind. "You know I hate when you get the face."

"What face? It's just my-"

"That face that says you're about to tell everyone everything whether they want to hear it or not. I don't like it."

"Ah. That face. I have only become recently aware of these so called faces I make. Though I hardly see the difference-"

"Not now, brother," she said, rubbing her temple and turning to the door. She opened it and slipped inside, her elder brother close behind.

His eyes searched the room, noting the changes that had been made in the last two days. The second bed had been removed. Replaced with an austere looking high-backed chair. It had been pulled up beside the bed, but not close enough to be practical for visiting the prone man who lay beneath the dark blue duvet.

Lily pushed up the sleeves of her robe, pulling out her wand and setting to work as Sherlock moved to stand just a little closer. But he dare not go nearer. Hands behind his back, his wand hand clasping the wrist of the other. Fingers gripping tight to keep from reaching out and-

"Well, at least his temperature's back to normal. Had me frightened there for a little while."

"After effects of the..."

She nodded, reaching up to brush her red hair out of her face. "He'd gone cold... I haven't seen anything like it up close. Lucia was afraid John might be joining her soon."

Sherlock fought to keep his face blank. It was difficult as he watched his sister continue with her checks. Relaying the information to him as she received it. And all other details he picked up on his own. Taking in the state of his best friend in the bed. Of the paraphernalia that had been left on the nightstand and on the tables nearby.

"John," he began, but she didn't turn to look as she cast a more intricate examination. "Is stronger than he appears."

"I'll say. Do you know how much magical power that cuff you gave him draws off the body? Seriously, Se... Sherlock. Are you sure he's really a muggle? Even squibs have just enough of a spark to mark them as different from the other non-magicals."

"Neither parent is of wizard lineage. Sister is as common as they come. You will not find a less magical person on the planet."

"All's the same," she said, tucking her wand into the holster on her wrist before sliding her sleeves back down. "That's no ordinary binding bracelet. Please don't tell me you found it while rooting around in some ancient crypt."

"Caves," he replied, but dared not allow his hands to move from their position behind his back. "Greece, I believe. Maybe Italy. Doesn't matter-"

Green eyes narrowed, giving a brief flash of silver before she let out a small sigh. "Fine. Have your secrets. But if you know what's good for you, the both of you, you'll get this mess cleared up right away. You know what happens to those who wear one and aren't actually bound to the person who put it on them."

"Mycroft," Sherlock hissed, the only sign of his sudden anger laced in the tone of that single name.

"Sort of... Well, yeah. He had to spill. Mum was worried. Thought he knew something about where you might've gone and, well, he's been spiking the tea with _veritaserum_ again." She stepped closer, reaching out to touch his chest gently with a soft, kind smile. "Just get the blasted thing off him soon, will you. It's not very sporting to forcibly bind the willing. And believe me, brother dear, that muggle of yours is very, very willing. He's just a stubborn berk."

The smirk claimed his mouth before he could stop it. "You must admit, however, that had it not been for that bracelet you would be standing over two graves rather than beside a bed."

"Sher-"

"You above the others know my black moods, sister. You've seen me through many a firestorm in my veins and blood curdling screams through the night. Now that I've access of my new drug of choice, you honestly believe I could survive so completely without him again? Let him run off with some less deserving creature, yes, if only I may keep a fraction of our friendship and a mere decimal of his attention. But to have my supply cut off so abruptly, without the possibility of slowly weaning myself away from his presence and his praise? No. I would quickly, and happily follow John Watson into the grave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last paragraph right there.  
> It literally had one of us sobbing like an infant. Seriously.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Companionable silence fell between brother and sister. She wrapped her arms around him, causing him to at last release his wrist and reciprocate when it had become clear she would not budge until he had. She pressed her ear against his chest, listening to his elevated heartbeat. "You're worried," she said finally, releasing him. "Do you need-"

"Yes," he replied, extricating himself from her embrace and moving to the chair beside the bed. He did not sit immediately. Instead he dragged it around to the opposite side, the side where John lay, and then seated himself in it.

Lily watched him as he settled into silence. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands pressed together to steeple just under his chin. She gave a nod, allowing her eyes to unfocus just a little. Allowing her to peek beneath the veil of reality and see the platinum haired woman standing guard beside the chair.

The woman, her Lucia, gave a small nod of understanding.

"I'll be taking Lucia with me," Lily said after a moment, unsure if Sherlock could even hear her. "But if anything changes-"

"You mean if he wakes," Sherlock said from his chair. "Yes yes. Take your ghost and go."

"Should I send for a house elf? In case-"

"No. No one but you or I are to enter this room. Especially Mycroft. He helped bring John here, correct?"

"Yes. After he was patched up."

"Keep him as far away as possible. I can still smell our brother's stink all over him."

She waited a few more minutes after he lapsed into silence once more. Waiting for him to say or do anything more. But there was nothing. His hawk-like gaze was focused entirely on the sleeping man in the bed. Quietly she slipped from the room, closing and locking the door behind her.

                **o0o**

Sherlock had sat for hours. Silently willing John to open his eyes. To respond in some manner other than the brief rapid eye movements behind his lids. When Sherlock had first noticed it, he felt a flood of relief. It had been a well documented fact in the post-war medical studies on prisoners who had received the Dementor's Kiss did not dream. That, and many of one's other mental faculties ceased to function properly with the removal of what the majority of wizards considered the human soul. Though Sherlock had become a man of science, a man of reason and rational thinking over the span of his long life, there were still the dormant ingrained fears and half-glimpsed beliefs that lingered still in the darker corners of his mind. Left over from a boyhood spent in the isolated world of magic and mysticism.

Yet as the man's eyes moved quickly, rapid bursts of dreams playing behind his eyelids that lasted in reality for mere seconds, he found himself taking comfort, briefly, in the old superstitions. John had been kissed by death, and lived presumably intact to tell the tale...

"Should he even wake," Sherlock spoke quietly to the otherwise empty room.

He remained hunched, fingertips pressed into the flesh beneath his chin as his elbows remained firmly upon his knees. He needed a wash. He needed food and drink and rest. And knew that had John been awake, he would have insisted upon it. But he wasn't. Thus... Sherlock remained. Sitting in silent study of a face he doubted any other, including its owner, knew better than he.

The steady, shallow breathing periodically sped up in conjunction with the occasional dreams that came and went. Only a fraction, the slightest of differences. But not beyond the notice of Sherlock Holmes and his sharp eyes. When coupled with the slight, brief flaring of nostrils, and the wrinkle of his brow as he slept, it would be a nightmare that had come upon him. Under normal circumstances, he would awaken with a shout. Awaken screaming or sobbing, lost in the mental projections of war and blood and sand. As he had many a night at Baker Street, only to find his friend down the stairs, having silently moved to work in the sitting room rather than the kitchen. Or wordlessly retreat to his own room should it be obvious John had needed complete solitude instead.

But these were not normal circumstances. John's own fear would not wake him. Because it was his fear that had gripped him tight and refused to release him. That was, unfortunately, the after effects of nearly having what metaphorically passes as one's soul ripped unwillingly from the body.

Unfortunately for the both of them, Sherlock understood the physical... and emotional effects of having come so close to the brink. And he also understood that right now, there was absolutely nothing he could do but wait. And hope John woke on his own.

****

**o0o**

The lock clicked, and Sherlock was on his feet within seconds as the door creaked open. His wand out and pointed at the petite woman standing with a tray carefully balanced on one arm. "Oh, put it away, it's only me."

"You brought me dinner. I'm not hungry."

"I'll have you know I had to fight with the kitchen elves for this. You're going to eat it. Because as bad as he's going to feel when he wakes up, the bloody idiot's going to think it's his fault you haven't eaten."

Sherlock threw himself back into his chair as she came in to set the tray down on the writing desk by the window. "Father is insisting you see him. I've managed to keep him off your case for the evening, but you'd better check in with him tomorrow."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So he can blame me for ruining yet another happy family holiday, no doubt. If not for mother, I needn't have bothered to come at all."

"Father's worried-"

"Hardly." He tucked his wand away, up his sleeve as he settled back. "I know precisely what the man thinks of me. Likewise, he knows my views on him. There is nothing more to discuss other than the formalities of a father obligated to state his disappointment and attempt to discipline an errant and willful child. Really, Lily. The only time Draco Malfoy showed concern for my welfare was when it became quite obvious he would be stuck with the embarrassment of my existence and the burden of having an unpredictable and dangerous creature under his roof."

She stood with hands on her hips, her red hair pulled up into a messy bun. Tufts stuck out here and there, with stray strands defiantly dancing where they had come free from the rest. "You... You're both just the same. You keep talking like you hate one another! You know father would take a killing curse for you-"

"Because if he didn't mother would hate him for not protecting one of their children. And he would never do anything to deliberately upset mother."

"And you," she continued as if he hadn't said anything, "Would face a pack of rabid werewolves if they took a mind to take a chunk out of father."

"I hardly see how such a scenario would come to pass. Has he been deliberately provoking the werewolves of late? Has he been selling bogus wolfsbane on the black market? Also, what incentive would I have to keep him safe when my entire life he has treated me with less dignity than a common dog? It would be in my best interest to leave him to the wolves than to risk my own life."

She groaned in frustration. It was an old argument and it was going nowhere fast. "Look, I'm just saying-"

"I know what you are saying. And I am simply informing you that you are wrong. It would be unkind of me to allow your belief that father and I may yet come together with hugs and smiles and forgiveness to continue."

"Merlin! You're such a dick!" she shouted angrily.

His expression, she found, softened. Just a little around the eyes as he turned his attention back to John. "Yes," he said. "I've been reliably informed of the fact, thank you. Now, if you would kindly perform whatever tests you need to do and then leave, I would be much obliged."

She mumbled and grumbled as she repeated her tests from before, allowing her brother to tell her every detail he had picked up during his vigil. Her mood hadn't improved, but she was able to set it aside to examine later with practice dummies and a few well aimed hexes later. Easily she allowed herself to drop into her healer role as she listened and worked. Sherlock was detailing for her his incomplete knowledge of his only friend's nightmares. Facts he had been able to glean from listening one floor below. Or outside of a bedroom door and unsure of what would be needed, or if he should even intrude.

By the end, she was frowning. "Nightmares... Why didn't I see that before..."

"Because you did not know to look specifically for it. You do not know what signs to look for, as you do not know John as well as I."

Rubbing her chin she tried to think of something she could do to help the man on the bed. "Normally we would prescribe the highest dosage of Dreamless Sleep for trauma like that. Even then, only sparingly."

"Dreamless Sleep also puts the drinker into a deeper sleep. That is precisely what we do not wish to do." He considered the options for a moment, waving his hand to stop his sister from pinching him as he receded briefly into the halls of his mind palace. Searching for an answer to the problem at hand. Somewhere there had to be an answer. One that his sister had overlooked.

"Of course!"

"What?"

"Take Lestrade into London. Have him go to my flat," he said excitedly, striding to the writing desk and pushing the tray laden with food out of the way. Lily whipped out her wand and managed to catch it before it clattered to the floor beside him. Quickly he had scrawled across a piece of parchment, then ripped it off a larger roll and handed it over. "Have him procure these items. He's conducted enough drug busts to know where I keep them."

"Drug busts?! Sherlock! Really?!"

"No no. Well... sometimes. Not since John- We don't have time. Go. Now. When you return, you will find me in father's lab."

"And what exactly are you going to do?!" she exclaimed, following him to the door.

"One of three things. Either ease his nightmares until he wakes on his own, wake him up, or possibly overdose him with Pepper-up potion. Have you ever experienced the effects of nineteen consecutive doses, taken regularly at ten minute intervals? Quite invigorating!"

"That could kill him!"

"Yes. But what would you have me do? Sit and do nothing when the answer is stored in here?" He tapped the side of his head. "Sister, I am impatient and easily bored. I cannot sit idly by watching John sleep when I could very well be regaling him with my intellect and receiving the praise I so desperately need like fish need water and the human body needs air. Now get going! I won't wait a second longer than necessary!"

****

**o0o**

Lily had taken Lestrade to retrieve the items on the list her brother had given her. When they had returned, he was indeed in their father's potions lab. The stench of his work wafted through the halls. Mycroft and Harry were shouting through the door at him when the healer and muggle had arrived.

Lestrade clutched the leather pouch in his hands tightly. Lily had filled him in, as best she could, on why they had to fetch her brother's kit. Specifically his hypodermics. He'd refused, of course, not wanting to aid the detective's drug use. But when she'd explained that they were needed for something entirely different, and for John, he'd reluctantly agreed to find them. Now, faced with the smells, and the two very concerned wizards pounding on the old door... He couldn't help himself. "What's this about!"

"Sherlock! I know what you're making and I personally call the healers to take you back to rehab!"

"Piss off Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted from the other side. "And tell mother to stop trying to apparate inside! It's putting me off!"

"Why you-"

Harry's words were cut off when Lily gave a sharp, almost earsplitting whistle. Mycroft and Harry winced while Lestrade had tried to cover his ears from the sound.

"Now that I've got your attention!" she shouted loud enough to ensure Sherlock could hear her inside. "He is not brewing drugs. At least... I hope not. He's trying to... Well, he's got this idea. About combining some potions into some sort of super Pepper-up potion."

"The last time he tried that we had to strap him to the bed!" Mycroft shouted, turning to bang on the door again.

"Lily, do please deal with our brother!"

With a sigh, she turned her wrist, letting her wand fall from the holster strapped to her arm. The moment her fingers closed around it, she flung a stunner at her eldest brother, then turned her attention to Harry as Mycroft crumpled against the door and slid to the ground. "I know I can't take you in a fight, mother. But I will try if I must."

"You-"

"It's for John. And I've done everything I can. We can't take him to St. Mungos, he's a muggle. And we can't take him to a muggle hospital because then the department of Muggle Affairs will get involved, and no one wants that. Especially Mycroft. And we do not need our names attached to yet another scandal." She held out her other hand to Lestrade. "The kit, if you please. Then tend to my brother. He's going to have a headache when he comes to. That was a rather strong one."

"Lilian, lower your wand and step away. I know you feel you have to defend your brother. You love him, and so do we, but you need to understand that he's-"

"What? Dangerous? He's more dangerous to himself than anyone else! What with his self sacrificing ways and his selfless acts of bravery he thinks no one knows about!" She made sure to shout that last bit to ensure the man in question heard her. "Why, if he fails tonight I'd have to put him on suicide watch, and he knows I will. Because he very clearly informed me exactly what would happen to him should John Watson shuffle off without him. Now Greg, be a dear and give me the kit or I will forcibly take it from you. I'd hate to have to stun a defenseless muggle like some common dark witch."

The door creaked open, and a very frustrated and very haggard looking Sherlock came out in a wave of orange smoke. "Take this," he said, holding out a small wooden box. "Mix exactly one drop of the solution in the kit with it."

Lestrade shouted at him. "You're not giving John cocaine Sherlock!"

"No. THAT is in the kit hidden up the chimney. THIS is the kit from the floorboards under the left side of my bed, is it not?"

"Yes," Lily answered, taking the box from her brother.

"Then it's the one with the morphine. One drop, Lily. Fill the syringe to the yellow line with the potion. No more than that. Understand?"

"Do I-"

"No. You will wait for me. Go!"

"What about?"

" _Accio veritaserum_ ," he said, holding his hand out for one of the bottles from the shelves behind him. Before anyone could stop him he uncapped the bottle with his teeth and downed the entire thing. Pulling a face, he threw the bottle down, hearing it break as it hit the floor.

He didn't stop to answer Harry's demands, stalking through the manor with his mother on his heels as Lestrade and Lily took an alternate route, well out of the detective's path, to John and Sherlock's room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, one of the writers burst into tears while writing.  
> He just has a lot of Johnlock feels, okay.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> **o0o** = denotes scene changes  
>  lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

"Severus, please! Stop this madness!"

Sherlock growled at the voice behind him as he reached for the door. Harry's hand slammed firmly against the ebony wood, holding it firmly closed.

"You just swallowed an entire bottle of veritaserum. Do you have any idea what that does to the body? What it'll do to you!?"

"Only if I lie," he said as calmly as he could, uncaring if he managed to sound that way or not. "We both know how this is going to end, mother. I suggest you stand aside."

"He is not well, Severus. He needs to rest after-"

"He was the one using my sister like a common owl. Demanding my presence through her when we the pair of you own perfectly good house elves."

Sherlock, regretting that it had to be done, shoved Harry out of the way before yanking the door open so hard he heard the hinges protest as the door was nearly pulled from them in his haste to enter his parents' rooms. "Your idiot of a husband brought it on himself!" he snapped harshly as he stepped into the sitting room, searching it quickly with a sweep of his gaze before focusing on the door beyond. The bedroom.

"I know you're listening! So here I am!" he shouted. "While I would gladly continue this charade, John has no time for games! I suggest you slither into something decent and face me!"

Sherlock could already feel the probing at the edges of his mind as Harry not so subtly attempted to legillimens him again. He understood the desperation behind the attempt. Even one so powerful as the great Harry Potter could not risk starting a fight when there could be other ways to diffuse the situation. Especially when the harm that could be done would be to his own family. "If you keep doing that mother," he snapped, desperate to hold onto some sense of control over his currently high emotions. "You may not sleep through the night."

"Is that a threat?" Harry replied, his voice hard and angry, his fingers itching to go for his wand the second time since his son's return to the manor.

The door across the room creaked open. "No, Harry. It is a promise." Draco, leaning heavily on a black wooden cane with a dragon carved into the handle, stood framed by the bedroom entrance. He was pale, more than was normal. Sherlock noted he was favoring his right leg. Despite his usual immaculate dress, his hair was disheveled. Slightly matted from hours spent lying in bed. His injuries, Sherlock also noted, were as severe as he'd surmised from the brief moment he had seen him that terrible night.

"Degenerative hex to the knee," he said, waving Harry away when his husband had come to help ease his burden. "Not that you hadn't seen-"

"I never see," Sherlock said quickly. "I notice. I observe."

"A curse we both must bear," Draco replied, moving towards a chair by the fire. "Sit."

"I'll stand. I haven't time for pleasantries. John-"

"Yes. I quite got that impression from all the shouting. Harry, would you mind-"

"Mother stays," Sherlock said firmly. "It is for his benefit I willingly took the veritaserum."

"Why would you do that?" Draco asked, carefully studying his son from where he sat, though masking his indifference with concern in his voice. Yet there was no genuine concern behind that silver gaze. Only annoyance thinly veiled as boredom. His eyes narrowed as he took in the younger man's complete appearance. The pale skin marred by the sweat on his brow and the clammy gray of his hands. The hair, dark curls far more wild than was normal from constant pulling and tugging, and damp from sweat and... steam. The scent of cinnamon and verbena and a touch of smoke. Lips pressed into a thin line as he swallowed hard, holding that famous sharp tongue of his in check. Arms slightly twitchy as hands were willed to keep steady. Hips slightly swaying as Sherlock barely managed to keep himself still. "You've been in my lab. What mind altering poisons have you taken this time? And do not lie to me boy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Anxious and annoyed all at once. "Only veritaserum, Draco. Now let us get on with it."

"Why? Clearly you've got the shakes. You're in the middle of a damned overdose.  **Again**. Hardly worth wasting my breath with your paranoid-"

"I am not paranoid!" Sherlock replied, unable to keep the words from coming out as a monstrous snarl. "And I've not-"

"Draco, he's telling the truth. Just the serum."

"Really? Were you present while he was in my locked laboratory mixing and matching-"

"No, but-"

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock shouted angrily, the flames in the fireplace leaping higher in his rage before settling down again as he willed his emotions back under control. This was not the time for petty squabbles. He needed to get this done, now, so that the moment John was able they could leave without delay. Without his having to worry about whatever else Draco might do to lure him back to a world he rather preferred kept well away from him. "The tremors are a result of taking too much of a single potion at one time, yes. But I assure you it was necessary. Should I lie while this abominable poison is in my body without the antidote, then you will be pleased to witness your son writhing in agony on the floor begging for death. Now, let us move forward to the heart of the matter. NOW."

The two men stared at one another as Harry could only stand by and watch. This wasn't the first time he'd had to try and come between them. He'd always had to play peacemaker when neither would give an inch. Both believing wholeheartedly that he was in the right. Sadly, they usually were. Just not quite able to agree to it. "Mother," Sherlock said, breaking the heavy wall of silence that had descended in the room. His voice was calm, and held his own small version of concern and patience that Harry knew very few people even noticed. "Please sit. You are tired and confused and would rather not have to draw your wand and choose between us. You must first fully understand the reasons for the attack on your home and, if there is time later there are matters between Draco and I of which you need to become aware. It will illuminate your understanding of our... mutual hostility."

Draco scoffed at him, but his husband ignored it. "Severus," Harry started, but was unsure of how to follow that. The change in tone had thrown him, surely. But Draco's reaction? That was... Green eyes cast over to look at him briefly before sighing and giving a nod of consent. He moved to seat himself in the second chair by the fire, positioning himself in it so that he may see both his husband and his child without difficulty.

"Get on with it then boy. You're so desperate to make this quick and get back to your muggle."

Sherlock's eyes hardened as he opened his mouth to rebuke him then; instead of an insult he chose his words carefully. Calculated his thoughts, and then shared them as calmly as he possibly could. Given his flights of mood throughout, Harry appreciated the effort Sherlock was making at trying to remain calm.

"I am at fault. Had I been present or not during the attack is of little importance. It would have taken place regardless."

Harry frowned. "But why? Everyone knows it is suicide to even think about trying to attack us directly. I'm not proud of it, but there isn't anyone with enough power to even try."

"Clearly. But try she did. Mary Morstan has been planning this since our first encounter. Mycroft and Lily, the idiots, intervened rather than allowing me to end it then. Revealing to her my true identity. Placing the rest of you in danger. It was only a simple matter of finding those who do not hold the same regard for the family as the majority of the wizarding world. Enter Miss Thorton, who has suffered much since my overdramatic refusal of our arranged marriage and my subsequent disappearance. Whatever her motives may have been, one aspect is very clear. In order for Mrs. Morstan to gain control over her, Miss Thorton must have been in a state of extreme emotional and psychological distress. After observing her on the night of the attack, it is very clear to me that following my disappearance she endured daily abuse. Possibly both parents, but more likely her father. The subject was deeply personal and shameful, meaning it was due to a previous intimate relationship of which her parents, especially her father, did not approve. Her will was broken. She remained unattached because of the scandal that I assume her marriage to me and our family name would have helped her to avoid."

Harry noticed that with every mention of Isolde Thorton and the observations his son had made, he would cut his ashen eyes to Draco. An accusatory glance as he continued to speak. The note of disgust in his voice was subtle but unmistakable to the man who had raised him. All the while Draco sat in silence, watching Sherlock but keeping his reactions hidden behind a mask of disinterest and annoyance. This, Harry knew, was not going to end well.

"Back to the reason for the attack then. It was a personal blow from Mrs. Morstan to me. She had failed to take John from me. Thus she aimed to take my family instead. Your lives for those of her mates, whose deaths she attributes to me as well."

"Did you-" Harry started, but Sherlock held up his hand to stop him.

"One of them, a muggle who had decided to attempt a most deadly game against me, killed himself. Our game had run its course, and it was clear he had no other option than to allow me to capture him and extract the information I needed. He had ruined me, but had he lived I may have been able to undo the damage he had caused. The other... Yes. I did kill him. My only regret is that it kept me apart from John for three years. Mycroft, yourselves, and the Ministry were not alerted to my action because I did not use magic to do so, but relied on muggle means. By then, Mary Morstan had already sunk her hooks into John and would have succeeded in her mission of revenge for her first dead mate had I not returned when I did."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but found he could not find the words with which to respond. He knew, just from the look on his son's face... from the darkness evident in his eyes that there was more to it than what he had said. It was a haunted look; the evidence of much pain and misery the likes of which Harry had not seen since the war. He'd carried that expression so many times himself. Had seen it grace Draco's features when he was reminded of his parents and the Dark Lord who had nearly enslaved him as well.

It hurt, to see his child look like that. Like he carried the weight of the world's sorrows on his shoulders with no relief in sight. He knew there was naught to be done for it; at least naught he could do.

Draco shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter. "A creature rivalry gotten out of control."

"You know nothing of the true nature of Creatures, Draco. Yet you dare assume something of this nature is little more than a petty spat?!," Sherlock snapped angrily. "I wish they had caught you with a killing curse. At least then I needn't put up with your poor observations and incorrect assumptions based on incorrect data! If I want the wrong answers, I'll talk to John! At least he makes an effort to-"

"Will you shut up for one minute!" Harry shouted back at him, causing the two men to cut their eyes over to look at him. "Please. Back to the attack. How could she have escaped Azkaban? How could she have that many followers at her command when she's been in prison since you returned to your muggle life?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, glancing at the grandfather clock to the right side of the room. He was taking too long. He needed to hurry. To get his John back as soon as possible. So that they could leave, hopefully, soon. "A Vanishing Cabinet."

"The last cabinets were destroyed in the war," Draco snapped in barely controlled challenge. "During the Dark Arts Purge that followed."

"Yes. But obviously there were pieces left. Enough to make two boxes. Just big enough to allow apparition inside and, with careful timing the lid was closed at one end while the lid was opened upon the box at the other end, thus completing the circuit. Apparition into the manor is prevented by the wards. Even we cannot use that method to go from one wing to another. Apparition is only possible outside the wards, and as added security to the surrounding grounds, only the space beneath and around the ash tree allows residents and visitors alike to apparate here.

"But using the Vanishing Boxes, one can come and go, using that method, without getting thrown back by the wards, as well as reduced chances of splinching. The pieces, I assume, were brought to her while in Azkaban by various means. I'm sure you will find after further investigation that her solicitor visited her quite often after her trial and sentencing. He will also bear a spider's web between his shoulder blades. The mark all wizards under Moriarty's employ carried on their flesh. As for her grand escape and when to attack... The entire wizarding world knows Harry Potter throws a lavish feast for friends and family every year on Christmas Eve. Isolde Thorton's family have been acquaintances of Draco Malfoy since your grand return to England. They became close political allies when he was able to silence rumours of Isolde's shameful intimacy with centaurs. Thus assuaging fears that he was pro-creature equality in the wizengmont, despite having a child of his own that bore distinctive creature traits himself." Draco made to object, but Sherlock glared hatefully at him. "I would continue, but I must see to John. I am sure there are some matters mother would like to discuss with you while I am otherwise indisposed." His mouth twitched into a devious, horrible, yet almost gleeful in its malice, grin. "You should also be aware that mother has been dosing everyone in my absence with _veritaserum_. The usual method."

* * *

"After leaving your grandparents in their rooms, I went straight to take care of your dad."

Hudson, Harriet, and John were staring at him. The twins with wide eyes, and John with a narrow _bit not good_ stare. Sherlock sighed. "What?" he asked his husband.

"You know what," John replied.

And he did. But there was no way around it, really. It was why Mary Morstan tried to kill John. And had tried to kill him as well. "Ah... That. Well..."

And that's when the twins erupted in chorus. Asking questions about Moriarty and demanding all the answers they'd never gotten. Finally the two men were able to get them back under control, but they glared at their father. Hudson was the one to speak first. "You said you killed a man." His expression was much like John's when he spoke of very serious matters.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a nod. "I did. But that doesn't mean it was the right thing to do." He glanced at John, who gave him a very subtle nod to continue. "While at the time it was the only option I had, I am not proud of what I did. I will never be proud of it. And the two of you must always strive to avoid repeating my mistakes. Just because I've done such an act does not make it acceptable."

Harriet frowned in concentration as she tried to puzzle through "But what if-"

"Never." Sherlock insisted.

Harriet's frown did not fade. "What if I had to or else someone else was going to hurt you and daddy?"

Sherlock cut his eyes to John, who was blinking back at him. The two men seemed to communicate in that same manner their children did. But theirs had come from years of intimacy and practice. John sighed, drawing the twins' attention away from Sherlock who had silently pleaded for John to field this question.

"You two are too young for this kind of talk, but I know you won't leave it be because you're curious and inquisitive. And you never stop until you have answers. Someday," John said gently, putting his arm around his daughter and holding her to him since she was the closest. Since he couldn't do the same for her brother, he looked at him when he spoke instead. "Someday, we'll explain it to you. You may be old enough to know, but not understand it. What you need to know right now is that what we do is very dangerous, but it also helps and protects people. Sometimes people will get hurt, and sometimes people will die. But you must never seek to hurt others. And before you contradict me, I'm not saying you shouldn't defend yourself if someone tries to hurt you. But you do not go out and start a fight. You do not go out and hurt someone simply because you can and you are bored. Do you understand this?"

The twins shared a brief look of consideration. Sherlock watched them closely, and knew before they nodded their heads that they did, in fact, understand John's simple and straightforward statements. The ghost of a smile graced his mouth before he let it disappear again as John placed gentle, loving kisses in the messes of sandy blond.

After a long and tense pause John stood, stretching his arms up over his head with a yawn. Shortly after the twins were ushered to bed and John retired for the night, Sherlock joined him in their bedroom. One look at his husband's face was all John needed to see. "Lock the door and put up a silencing charm," he said, scooting closer to the middle of the bed and holding up the covers.

Sherlock's hands made quick work of his top before he climbed in after him. "Already have," he said, wrapping his long limbs around him and pressing his lips against the exposed skin of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the obscenely long wait and the short chapter. This was nearly finished for so long and then suddenly, in the last 4 days rewritten entirely.  
> We hope to have chapter 23 completed soon and posted as well.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

                The next couple of days found John corralling children as Sherlock began a more thorough examination of the cottage. There had been small tales and anecdotes of a time when Sherlock had gone by another name while living under the very same roof. Of experiments gone wrong and of ridiculous arguments between brothers.

                And when Sherlock wasn't within hearing range, small quips from John that originally had been read in a **_Harry Potter_** novel.

                All in all, the family of soon to be five had settled in quite nicely into the old Potter home. They had a bit of a routine, really. The children didn't run wild, of course. Well, not entirely. They were allowed outside to play, something that rarely happened at their Baker Street home unless they were taken to the park. Sherlock was very strict about such things in the muggle world. He didn't care about the accidental magic incidents the children tended to find themselves in. That was normal of young wizards and witches before their proper schooling. His view was a far more sinister and protective one - he simply didn't want his children to be harmed by anyone with a grudge, nor kidnapped by someone planning to get to him and John.

                But, here in Godric's Hollow, Sherlock and John were relatively unknown. Their children protected by the powerful wards that covered the property upon which the cottage sat. And, well, everyone in the village had seen the twins coming and going from Potter's Cottage and knew it could only mean at least one branch of the infamous family had currently taken residence.

                But Harriet and Hudson stuck mostly to the front and back garden. Usually playing detective. Occasionally playing army doctor. And sometimes waging war for queen and country against the insidious gnomes that had threatened to invade the back garden like the US and its allies invaded Afghanistan.

                It was on one such afternoon that found John and Sherlock sitting in the front room of the cottage, watching the twins through the window as they went about searching for clues - or were they trying to track another terrible gnome - when a lovely, green-eyed creature came to call.

                Sherlock had been dozing with his feet in John's lap, having reached that stage in his delicate state that required he rest far more than was normal - well, for him at least. John had been keeping one eye on the window and the other on his book (brushing up on baby care tips and advice he'd let himself forget after the twins started trying to change their own diapers).

                He had looked up to see the front garden empty of children and frowned. He looked to Sherlock, not wanting to wake him. They had most likely gone around to the back - but he still didn't like to lose sight of them outdoors.

                There was a bang that made both detective and doctor jump on the sofa in panic - only to be followed quickly by mingled laughter from behind them.

                "Don't scare me like that!" John exclaimed, feeling that he should be just a tiny smidge upset at their little joke despite his relief. Sherlock, half sitting up now and frowning over the back of the sofa, muttered under his breath. What it was, his husband could not quite make out. But he was sure it was something very not good.

                Standing framed in the doorway of the front room was the very happy, still laughing form of Lily. Her red hair pulled back from her face and done up in yet another of her wild do's that were all the rage among the wizarding fashonistas. "Oh come now brother, it was only a little laugh! It's not my fault your little hedgies tried to pickpocket me. They should know better than to try and swipe my Exploding Snap deck!"

                Sherlock muttered something else under his breath before dropping himself back down onto the soft cushions of the sofa. "Bloody idiots," was all that John was able to make out.

                "I'll go and clean them up, yeah. They're grubby little hedgies. They can't really help auntie Lils with her cooking if they're covered in dirt now can they."

                John smiled. He always liked having the healer around - especially when she happened to turn up on one of Sherlock's darker days.

                "Just use a cleaning charm," Sherlock muttered, having thrown an arm over the top half of his face to block out the light.

                "No. They need a proper bath. Heaven knows you can't quite get the bits behind the ears with a _scourgify_." As if on cue, the twins giggled as one when she reached out and tickled them behind the ears. "And when I'm done with these two, we'll get you all checked out and up to snuff."

                "Just go away."

                "Keep talking like that and I may stay the night brother dear."

                "Merlin kill me now."

                John sighed, reaching down to rub at one of Sherlock's ankles and offering a kind smile, despite his husband's obscured view. "Sherlock, she's just trying to help."

                "Then let her do what she came to do and be done with it."

                John gave Lily an apologetic look before the woman ushered the children off to get clean.

                "We'll be having mummy's ratatouille with polenta rounds. You need more vegetables, and so does your kitten." Just as Sherlock had opened his mouth to snap back at her she added, "And no arguments, Severus, or I'll have to _Imperius_ you into eating. I'm sure John wouldn't object so long as it’s for your own good."

                The threat hung in the air a full minute before Sherlock grunted in agreement. Satisfied, she turned to her other self-appointed tasks.

                As the sound of happy laughter drifted down from upstairs, it was matched only by Sherlock's depressed moaning. "I'm bored John. Stuck here when I could be working. Solving even the most mind numbing of cases. Insulting Anderson. I need danger. Excitement. Not this... When did I become domesticated?... No, don't answer that," he said even as John's mouth opened to do so. "I adore them, but these little monsters are so much work."

                "One, they are not monsters. They are children. Two, you knew what you were getting into when we found out. BOTH times," John said, rubbing Sherlock's ankles that were still across his lap. "And three you are definitely not domesticated."

                "I'm stuck on my back, on the sofa in my parents' vacation home. I can't work. I can't think. I can't do a bloody thing without help. My magic has become so unstable I dare not try to even contemplate using it for more than a few basic necessities. I feel like an invalid. No, worse, I feel like a stay at home mother. And I despise it."

                "Sherlock... You are definitely not a stay at home mother."

                Sherlock groaned. "Tell that to the parasite currently living in my abdomen."

                "Again, human-"

                "You don't know that!"

                "Child. Not a monster-"

                "Could turn out to be like me."

                "Not a parasite."

                "All incubating spawn are parasites," Sherlock replied indignantly.

                John was trying really hard to remain patient. But Sherlock was just... Well, he'd just have to find a nice quiet, soundproof room and give a blank wall a good shouting at later. Or do some really, truly, terribly angry baking. "Oh shut it. Now you're just complaining to hear your own voice."

                "Merlin forbid the twin terrors hear me speak the truth."

                John scrubbed a hand down his face with a sigh. "It's not the truth. You adore them and spoil them rotten. And they know it. Even if you do occasionally call them vile little monsters."

                They remained in silence for a long time after. Sherlock dozing fitfully as John reached over to gently rub circles upon his bump while reading his baby book.

**o0o**

                Despite Sherlock's complaints, the very obvious incongruous sizes of the vegetables, and the sheer amount of dishes the woman and children had dirtied in their cooking, dinner was rather good. Pleasant, even. Sherlock, unwilling to argue with his sister, ate every bite but declined a second helping when it was offered. Lily had to help John get him upstairs so she could get a proper look at her patient, leaving the poor house elf (whom she had banished from the kitchen so that she may cook in peace) to return to its normal duties... Muttering about the mess all the while.

                The twins, now well fed, happily tired from the excitement of the kitchen, were left to their own devices in the sitting room.

                Upstairs, now settled in bed (though he would much rather have been sitting in his favorite spot on the sofa in the sitting room downstairs) Sherlock lay on his back, frowning at his sister as she cast her various spells to check that both he and the child were still in good health.

                It was over relatively quickly, and she prescribed a few different nutritional potions while taking him off some others. Quietly she whispered to John to step out into the hall for a few moments once he'd gotten Sherlock settled in for a good night's rest.

                She waited patiently for him outside the door. He closed it quietly behind him ten minutes later with a worried expression on his face.

                "Did you find something wrong? You said everything was-"

                "No no. Don't worry about that. The tests were all fine, like I said. He and the baby are perfectly healthy. Better than healthy, they're bloody fantastic. But-"

                "I knew there was a but coming..."

                "His magic is... well, it's not as strong as it should be right now. That child is going to be very, very powerful. Not surprising, what with our lineage. Physically they are fine, but the child's magical development is putting a strain on my brother's core. More so than when he was carrying the twins."

                "What can we do? Is there a potion, or some sort of spell you can do?"

                She shook her head. "He's going to be even more tired than he is now. Might sleep for two days straight through. I'll be stopping by more often, to check on him and help with the kids. Because of the long periods of sleep, he's going to need to eat larger meals when he's awake."

                John nodded, taking everything in.

                "He is to perform absolutely no magic. None. Whatsoever."

                "But what about-"

                "I'm serious John," she said, standing with a hand on her hip. "He lived like a muggle before, he can do it again. No. Magic."

                John nodded again. "Anything else?"

                She smiled and put her other hand on his shoulder. "You remember that talk we had, when he was acting very strange and bipolar, and then after your little hedgies started being their own little people, it turned out Sherlock was actually projecting their personalities through his mood swings?"

                John frowned in concentration. Sherlock hadn't been acting odd, well, no more than could be expected. He wasn't uncharacteristically happy this time. Nor was he chatty. Just... a bit more extreme in his normal eccentricities...

                And then it hit him. "Oh Christ."

                Lily nodded and gave him a sympathetic smile. "That little kitten is going to be just like his father."

                "This explains so much... So... He's dealing with his own normal... and then there's..."

                "I'm afraid so John. When he's in his moods, it's quite possible that it's not even really him. I can't really tell which is which, really. And obviously you can't either otherwise you'd have picked up on it when it began. I think father might be the only one that would be able to tell the difference."

                The muggle huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, because leaving a pregnant Sherlock in the same room as Draco Malfoy for more than 5 minutes is a terribly good idea. We both know he doesn't need magic to turn Harry into a widower."

                She shrugged. "I wasn't suggesting we lock them in a room together. Just... maybe if our brother put some cameras in here, father could watch the footage and pick out some early warning signs, and note down the differences. It would make things so much easier for us if we knew for sure that he honestly can't help it and isn't being a total berk just because he has a good excuse."

                John's eyes went wide, then narrowed as she shrugged her hand off his shoulder. "Not a chance. First you try to get your father killed. Then me. And I can't defend myself against him when he's like this. Or have you forgotten I nearly lost my good arm the last time."

                Lily gave a slight nod and puffed out her cheeks. There really wasn't much else she could do other than stop by to help out, and keep with her brother's checkups. Then, an idea hit. "Wait. Greggy might have some cases! Brother does love his puzzles, and it would give him something to do with himself. Keep him in high spirits when he's awake. And I might be able to talk to some of our friends in the DMLE about sending some unsolved case files over. Just so he can have a look at them. No legwork, and it'll keep him busy."

                Blue eyes closed as he thought it over. Yes, they hadn't been in the cottage long, but already Sherlock had run out of things to do. He was easily upset, so giving him busy work may just get his mind off how terribly bored he was. Give him some sense of purpose and self worth when the black moods, now doubled in strength, would strike. He opened his eyes and gave a nod in the affirmative. "We'll talk to Greg first. Then Dimmock-" At the mention of the other D.I. Lily's face lit up. John knew she had a thing for that particular muggle, but he never commented on it lest she start causing a ruckus about it. "And when they run out of cases, go talk to whomever you need to. And no putting cameras in the house."

                "Good. I'll get right on that tomorrow. Are you going to-"

                "Yeah. Just in case he needs something. You know how he can get. Phone in his pocket and he won't even bother to reach for it himself."

                She shook her head and gave him a knowing smile. "That's because he is completely socially awkward and doesn't know how to just tell you to cuddle him or something."

                "....That was before he started trying to bite my lips off."

                "....Well then. That is.... I mean. Really?"

                John nodded. "Pen behind his ear, he yelled at me for an hour to hand it to him. Treats me like his own personal summoning charm."

                "But you like it."

                His cheeks tinged pink, and he gave a false cough. "Yes, well. You'd best... Don't want to leave them unsupervised for long. Might start building bombs out of sticking plasters and chewing gum." He slipped back into the bedroom. She waited just a few moments, then hurried away when she heard her brother shouting that he tried to sleep, but couldn't because John gave him the wrong book to read.

**o0o**

                The evening soldiered on as the children occupied themselves with exploring the magical books that lined the bookshelves in the sitting room. Before, they dared not go near them when their parents were around. Their father had told them they were far too young for them, and John had warned them away for fear that they would open a portal to somewhere and he, being a muggle, would be unable to stop it. But now with their aunt Lily, they had free reign, and knew better than to try and use the magic they were reading about. At least, not yet. However, their excitement quickly simmered into boredom once they'd found and thumbed through what they considered to be interesting.

                Lily had glanced up from her magazine to see the twin terrors standing in front of her chair, staring at her expectantly. "What?"

                "Story."

                It was the one word her brother-in-law had warned her about. Where did he say Sherlock had left off at?

                "Well sit down. Sit down. I can't really tell you much, you know. Since I'm not your parents."

                "But father sent you to see to daddy," one mouth said.

                "With the potion to make him better," the other mouth said.

                Well, they answered that question for her. Adjusting herself in her chair, as the twins sat on the floor before her, legs crossed and faces eagerly turned to her in their childish demand to be entertained, she tried to come up with a good place to begin.

                This would be easy, right? After all, she sometimes, occasionally, when bribed really nicely with expensive wine and backstage passes and the occasional totally rockin' muggle party dress... looked after children. Once. While the captain of the Hollyhead Harpies was totally off her rocker celebrating her divorce.

                How hard could this be?

                She cleared her throat and started her turn in the ridiculously long tale of that terrible Christmas when she met John Watson, doctor, soldier, and the best damn tea maker she'd ever seen.

                "Well, as you know your father sent me to John with the seriously dangerous potion he'd just brewed up, and expected me to mix it with some muggle concoction Greggy and I had retrieved from your muggle home. While your father was having a row with your grandfather, and really I'm surprised mummy didn't bring the manor down when he heard some of what I was told later on-"

                "STORY!" Harriet demanded.

                "Right, right," Lily said, getting back on track. "While that was going on, we were in your father's rooms, trying to make John as comfortable as possible as we waited for my idiot brother's return..."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

                 Lily's hands shook as she remembered her brother's instructions.

                "One drop, he said."

                "I heard him."

                "What's that supposed to even do?"

                "Wake, ease, or kill. Take your pick. My brother could have been a potions master, if he'd bothered to try. But... He has a tendency not to test them before handing them out."

                Carefully, she used the eyedropper in the kit, adding one single drop and praying her hands didn't shake a second drop into the mixture.

                "He wouldn't!- It might kill him?! What was he thinking?!"

                "He's a desperate man, Greg," she said solemnly. "Muggles who sustain magical damage can seem fine, but it could slowly eat away at them. Can do any number of things. If it does kill him, it may be a mercifully quick death rather than the slow agonies I've seen happen before." She set the volatile potion and the dropper down and glanced over to the man in the bed. His eyelids were moving quickly. Another nightmare. The third since they had arrived after the little altercation outside her father's lab. "But let's keep our spirits up, yeah. Wouldn't do for all of us to assume the worst."

                Uneasily Lestrade nodded, watching as she carefully picked up the syringe from the kit. He could see her hands still shaking and put his own on her arm. "Let me," he said, and in explanation to her curious look, he sighed. "Rebellious youth on the wrong side of the law," was all he divulged. She gave a small nod and left him to it.

                A few short moments later he cleared his throat. "That's it then. We wait for Sherlock and-"

                "Go see to Scorpius," she said softly. "I did give him quite a powerful stunner. Might have even knocked a few tufts of hair out of place. He's going to need a mighty large piece of cake when he comes to."

                The detective inspector gave a small nod, cutting his eyes over to John briefly. "I'll fill him in on what he's missed so far."

                "And keep him as far away from this room as you can. Sherlock's already asked it of me, but you'll have an easier time convincing him." She gave a smile, but it was anything but reassuring. "My brother gets his temper from mummy. And if this goes... well... Last faces he'd want to see and all that."

                He gave her another nod and murmured his understanding. The door was closed quietly behind him. Alone with her thoughts, she let her shoulders sag and her worry truly show through. Green eyes watered just a bit as she moved to stand at the foot of the bed. One arm coming up to wrap around the right post so that she could lean against it. She watched the muggle, her brother's only honest friend, as he engaged in imaginary monsters or fought in nightmarish skirmishes within the domain of Morpheus.

                Though she hadn't met him, not until this holiday, she had heard a great deal about him from their older brother. The Iceman, some had called Scorpius Mycroft, but even he had been filled with excitement and warmth when he first told them all of Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's new flat mate. Had told them everything he had learned of the man, and spoke so highly of him that he even dared to hope that finally the difficult, arrogant, and ridiculously childish Sherlock had finally met his match.

                And in watching the two of them, in talking alone with John, she was in agreement of her eldest brother's assessment. He was better looking than she'd expected. Older, too, as far as muggles went. But he was so very kind. And warm. And loyal. His very presence seemed to put people at ease. And yet he was strong. Stubborn. Dangerous.

                Like a hedgehog, really. Cute and adorable, but awfully vicious when provoked. And she couldn't help but smile.

                "No wonder his patronus was so bloody odd," she said softly, blinking away tears for a man she'd only just met. "You'd better not die, Dr. Watson. Mummy hasn't even shown off Sherlock's baby pictures yet. And we've yet to open presents. The tree in the parlour was still standing, and mummy wanted to wait until my idiot brother came back. And for you to wake up of course. I'm curious to see what muggle things brother bought you."

                Her voice trailed off, leaving the eerie quiet of the bedroom and the slow, shallow breathing of John. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and waited, hoping Sherlock wouldn't take too much longer. She didn't like the idea of using untested potions on patients. She didn't like the idea of using anything that didn't appear on the St. Mungos Approved List of Muggle-Safe Potions on, well, muggles obviously. She couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen because of this. But she had done everything she could. And, while Sherlock had been gone, she'd had healers from St. Mungos have a look - the only alternatives had been to leave him in the long-term ward or keep him as comfortable as possible here at the Manor. But then there was this. And it was a decision she didn't feel comfortable making. She was a healer. She took an oath, damn it! And here she was letting Sherlock just-

                "If you're uncomfortable, leave."

                She let go of the bedpost and turned quickly. She hadn't even heard him come in. He looked-

                "I'm fine."

                "You're not fine, brother. You look terrible. You haven't slept, I know you haven't. And locked up with all those fumes... And then your stupid decision to drain all of that serum."

                "Which I am still under the influence of. Mind your words, sister, if you don't wish to hear the truth."

                She swallowed hard as he strode across the room, the door slamming behind him without having been touched. In his wake, the syringe filled with potion lifted from its place on the table and followed him. A wordless summoning charm then.

                "Cast a freezing charm."

                "But-"

                "Do it!" he roared angrily at her as he held out his hand, only to wrap his long fingers around the syringe the moment it landed on his waiting palm. The rubber tubing from the kit followed quickly after and landed on the coverlet beside John.

                She quietly cast the spell, then glanced around for Lucia. There, hiding in the corner, was the ghost.

                "I don't want her near him. He isn't going to die," Sherlock ground out as he pulled the blankets back and took John by the wrist with his free hand. She expected him to be rough and jerky with his movements. Instead she watched as his fingers pressed against the inner wrist, checking his pulse before moving further up the arm. Slow and skilled. Careful, as she had seen him when they were younger, when he had been learning the violin. Touching John's skin as if it were delicate and so easily damaged.

                "Of course he won't," she said, trying to sound hopeful. She raised her hand to stay her ghostly companion, and shook her head to signify that she must keep her distance. "You won't let him."

                "Exactly," he said as he stopped at the elbow. Stroking the soft skin of his inner arm before at last setting the syringe down and picking up the tubing. "And if he does, then, well, I'll find a way to bring him back, to kill him again for leaving me like this. It's so incredibly stupid. What was he even doing there? I told him to stay in the library. He was supposed to stay in the bloody library!"

                She hurried to his side, putting her hand on his shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze. "He was worried about you."

                "He's an idiot."

                "He's a soldier, brother. And a doctor. And he felt useless just sitting there waiting with the rest of us. Waiting to find out if you were alive or dead. He helped save more lives with his quick thinking and fast hands. All for want to keep you from getting yourself into trouble."

                He finally got the tubing tied on the third try, and went for the syringe. His hands were shaking worse than hers had been. A combination of the veritaserum overdose and his crumbling emotional defenses.

                She squeezed again to stop him. "Tell me what the muggle drug was for," she said. "You were very adamant about our getting it for you."

                She knew that he knew what she was doing. Trying to draw him out of the emotional and back into the factual. Back into the rational scientist he had always been. Trying to get him to focus.

                He licked his lips. "The primary purpose of morphine in muggle medicine is for the treatment and management of acute and chronic severe pain. It also finds a use in the management pain related to myocardial infarction and, in some cases, labor pains. I will not go into detail, as the compound is muggle in origin and you would not be able to understand the jargon to which both John and I are accustomed to using."

                She was a bit offended, but put her own feelings aside as he continued, unasked. "I am using it in this instance to reduce the symptom of shortness of breath during his nightmare cycles. I noticed this during my vigil. I'm surprised your repeated tests and healer experience did not catch it. Though, admittedly the occurrence only accompanies the nightmares, of which you were also unawares until I pointed it out. As for the combination with the potion itself, too much will overdose and mask any adverse effects of the potion. Too little will leave him in worse condition than I found him should the potion cause him additional physical pain."

                As he had spoken, he had picked up the syringe. She watched his hands, and found that, while still shaky, had been far steadier than before. "Just remember," she said, giving him another reassuring squeeze. "I'm a trained healer, and if things go wrong, I'm right here. And I'll do everything I can to help you. The both of you... But," she said, and he turned his head to look up at her. His ashen eyes rimmed red. What she had assumed before to be anger and frustration when he had come in was in fact fear. Fear that turned his soul to lead and froze the courage right out of him. Already his eyes had lost their brilliance. He held no mask on his face, and for the first time she lamented that she alone had ever been allowed to see him so vulnerable and weak. Because he was so very much the lost child who had left home so long ago.

                "John," she said, her voice cracking just a little. "He's either very masochistic or very stupid."

                "Stupid," Sherlock said, turning his head to look back at his John, taking his arm in one hand and turning it so that he may see the soft flesh of his inner elbow. Lily whispered behind him after casting a quick and very helpful little spell to clean and sterilize the place Sherlock had chosen to make the injection.

                "Stupid," Sherlock repeated. "Is just another word for brave."

                He carefully, with now completely steady hands, punctured the skin and eased the needle in before pressing down on the plunger. When it was finished, and he removed the syringe, two sets of eyes moved in otherwise static heads to look on the still face. Then, quickly, lips parted and he gave a pained groan before blue eyes snapped open. Sherlock jumped to his feet, causing his sister to nearly topple over in surprise.

                Chapped, dry lips cracked as he tried to speak. Tried to get something, anything out but all he managed to do was moan. Lily looked over to the corner, to her dearest Lucia to see her smiling. But still she kept her distance, as was requested.

                "What the bloody hell was that?!"

                "Nineteen pepper-up potions at once!" Sherlock exclaimed, then made to climb onto the bed. Lily stopped him as John's eyes rolled back and his lids closed.

                The taller man shouted a pained "NO!" as Lily struggled to hold him. "He's fine," she said. "He's fine." She repeated this over and over as the man in the bed silenced and returned to stillness.

                "You- you check him. You check him and you keep checking him until you find something!"

                She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his back, holding him in place as tight as she could. "He's going to be fine," she tried to reassure him once again. She didn't want to let go of him until he had calmed.

**o0o**

                It had taken a while, but Sherlock finally agreed to sit down in the chair beside the bed as Lily once more went through the routine of testing and casting and checking his vitals. At last, she finished and turned her attention to her brother. "Just as I said. He's going to be fine."

                "Tell me exactly what happened."

                She drew a deep breath and sat on the side of the bed, making sure not to nudge the sleeping man as she did. Once settled, she tucked her wand into the holster up her sleeve.

                "Well?" he pressed insistently.

                "John... is very damn lucky. The coma itself was magical, but... It looks like it was induced by something other than the dementor. There are traces on him now, brother."

                "Traces of what? He's not a squib-"

                "I never said he was. But there are traces of magic in him now nonetheless. First, I want to hear everything you know about that bracelet you gave him. I know it's a binding bracelet, and I know what it’s used for. We both do. And yes, I'm taking advantage of the veritaserum before it wears off, and I'm sorry. But this is very important to what's happened, now that I can put the pieces together."

                He schooled his features, but she knew. She knew that he knew, and that he didn't want to answer. However...

                "Don't make me phrase it as a question."

                He gave a slow nod. "Alright," he said, pausing. He closed his eyes so she could not read anything off him as he thought. "That particular item was found in the ruins of a nymphaeum in Italy-"

                "Nymphaeum?"

                He waved his hand. "A sort of sacred space for nymphs and their kind. An ancient nesting ground, if you will. Our rooms at Baker Street may be called such, as I am of their kin and that is my place of personal residence."

                "Oh... Alright. Now then, you found it in the ruins."

                He nodded. "I was injured and needed a place to recover after a particularly brutal encounter with no less than seven dark wizards in Moriarty's employ." She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he held up his hand to stay her. "Who he was is unimportant. Needless to say due to my nature I was drawn to such a place for my recovery after that encounter. While there, I did of course have a look around. In one of the tombs, I found various pieces of treasure. I recognized the cuff for what it was - a binding bracelet as you say. The... **my** kind were known for using them to keep their mortal mates safe from harm. It also kept rivals from getting too close and severing the bond, thus setting the mortals free. I had intended to use it only in the most extreme of circumstances. It was not until later I discovered this particular item was the fabled _Nysae Colafus_ ; the oldest known binding bracelet and contains very powerful wild magic. What better to protect John with should the need arise?"

                She smiled, because he had smiled at the thought. Of protecting his friend. And he repeatedly claims he's a heartless, emotionless bastard. "Only the best for you."

                "For him," he said, then nodding as if silently deciding what would come next. "As for the binding bracelets in general, I know that they are used to bind non-magical humans to magical ones. They are used, by some, to influence emotions and rob the wearer of their free will. But that occurs only when the wearer is already weak willed and if the bracelet is placed on them with ill intent. That's how magic works - intent defines the type of magic and where it falls in the light to dark scale despite what the Ministry would have us believe. They are used as a sort of passport for muggles between our world and theirs, and of course protect them from magic cast at them with the intention to harm and do ill."

                She nodded to each purpose. When he looked at her, expectation clear in his expression, she let her eyes soften. "You did your research."

                "Of course. I would never have placed it on him had I not ensure no harm would come to him."

                "Says the man who shot his bloodstream full of potion unknowing if it would kill him or not," she muttered softly to herself. It was clear he had heard her, but he made no comment. It wasn't, after all, a question. "But you didn't dig deep enough, Sev."

                "What do you mean?"

                "The innate magic of the bracelet induced the coma to protect him. Unfortunately, the dementor did more damage than we had originally thought. I'm sure the increasing frequency of the nightmares was the result of his exposure to it. According to our brother, he must have held out quite a long time against it before the magic reacted the way it did. When it induced the coma, it also created a magical block. Masking... changes."

                "Changes?"

                She nodded. "It explains why I was not able to detect it before. But... bindings combine a couple's magic into a single force. It's why mummy and father's magic, though very much distinct and different, hold traces of one another's magical signature. Why the DMLE usually bring in husbands and wives together when a magical trace is found at a crime scene. It could be either one. Do you follow me?"

                He nodded. "Yes. But I don't see-"

                "It's obvious," she said in that same haughty tone he so often took with others.

                He frowned. "You're doing a face. Now I understand John's frustration. And it does indeed look like you know something and expect everyone around you to know it. But I do not. And it is annoying."

                "John is a muggle. He doesn't have magic to combine with you. The bracelet acts as a bridge," she said, holding up her hands and lacing her fingers together to make a crude approximation of a bridge with her limbs. "The longer a non-magical being wears them, the stronger the bridge becomes. Obvious - it binds them to the magical being that put it on them. Your magic reacts to the innate magic of the item. You said yourself it was old, powerful, and wild. First rule of wild magic; it always has consequences. Not always bad, not always good. Somehow, and I really can't understand it without further study of this particular muggle of yours, the magic has become integrated with his life force. Possibly-"

                "When the dementor nearly took it from him and the coma was induced. The... what does mother call it?"

                "Spark. That's the term he likes to use."

                "Yes. The Spark was just starting to emerge when John..."

                "And that is when the coma happened! The magic wrapped itself around the spark, to protect it, because it was part of John. Who was, because of the bracelet, bound to your magical signature! Yes!"

                "The traces then... are mine."

                She nodded. "I'd know the feel of that chaotic dark magic anywhere. As I said, I'd need to study him further to give you more information. But... he's going to be perfectly fine. He's going to wake up, thanks to your potion forcing its way through the block. Which, if we follow this theory..."

                He narrowed his eyes at her, and she gave the warmest and happiest smile she could muster. "I won't tell mummy you were dabbling in the dark arts again. Just... I do hope you sterilized the blade before you pricked your finger. And cleaned it properly once you were done. You do know how father is about his athames."

                She didn't question. Then again, she didn't need to. It was written in his eyes, the depths of his desperation to save his friend. She turned to leave them, but stopped half-way to the door. "Brother," she said over her shoulder. "You will need to remove the bracelet soon if you still want to be able to let him go and live a muggle life with a muggle love. He cares deeply for you, but I'm worried it may not be enough to take the leap of faith you need him to take."

                He was silent, and she took this as her cue to leave.

                Outside the room, she finally let herself relax, just a bit, in relief. The worst was now past. Now the waiting would begin. Quickly she looked up and down the hall before starting towards her rooms. She was going to need a good, long bath and a nice, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Quick updates? Back to back? Yes. We are on the ball.  
> We'll try to stay on it as long as possible before losing our balance.  
> See, that cuff thing that John's wearing is important after all, and wasn't just some accidental plot device that we just remembered we had in there for seemingly no reason whatsoever...


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

                The morning of New Years Eve Lily went to check on her patient only to find him sitting up in the bed, very cross, and her brother dashing about the room throwing things into suitcases.

                "For the love of- Sherlock! Stop packing!"

                "Oi!" she snapped, slamming the door behind her as she stepped fully into the room. Sherlock cast an angry glare coupled with a vicious growl. In the time it took to blink she had her wand out, the spell rolled off her ruby lips, and Sherlock Holmes froze in the most ridiculous pose with arms full of wrapped gifts and multicolored socks.

                "That's better," she said, but didn't put her wand away just yet. Then she turned her attention to John. "Glad to see you awake. Though I can see he's already put you in a foul mood."

                "What's got him so-?"

                "Now now dear. Let me just check on you and then I'll tell you all about it. I am, of course, the healer in charge of you right now." When she reached the bed, she stood beside it and flicked her wand about. Humming as she received the full progress reports in the positive. "Good, good. I think you're out of the woods now, Dr. Watson. But no running around after my brother for at least a month. You've been through a lot, and need to build your strength back up."

                Once she was satisfied, she sat on the side of the bed and placed her wand across her lap. "Now then, I'm sure my brother has managed to tell you part of what has happened between fits of frustration and overprotective rage. That's just his way. Do you have any questions, or anything he didn't really explain so that you could understand?"

                He stared at her like she had grown a second head. But she smiled all the same and reached over to pat his hand. "I understand this is very difficult for you, and you do not quite comprehend the ordeal that you have endured. I will start from the beginning."

                And she did. Briefly she told him the information passed on to her about what had happened in that room between her brother and the dark wizards. Of the dementor, and the effects it had on John. He offered a fuzzy recollection of a shrouded wraith, and had started to describe the experience for her. She squeezed his hand when his voice had started to break. He'd told her about the very brief memories of Afghanistan that he'd suddenly been forced to remember, but when he got to the one that had tortured him over and over; all he could manage to get out was a rushed bit about a desperate phone call. She stopped him before he went further, not wanting to distress him even more.

                Once he had calmed, she continued. Telling him of her brother's two day disappearance and that Mycroft, Lestrade, and a few others had helped to move John to this very bed. Of her tired, sleepless nights until Sherlock came back to take her place standing vigil. At this John cut his eyes back over to his dear friend, still frozen with a look of indignant frustration on his face and an arm load of presents and socks. He couldn't help the ghost of a smile that came upon him.

                "And he says he's a cold, heartless bastard."

                "I told him the same," she said, giving his hand a squeeze again. She told him about Sherlock's wild idea with the potion, which got an angry "You could have killed me!" from John before she was allowed to continue. Explaining how he went into the coma in the first place. She conveniently left out the parts about this Mary woman's ultimate fate, and the row Sherlock had had with their father. She didn't even explain the connection the cuff on his arm had forged between them, nor the fact that John now carried traces of her brother's magic inside him.

                For one, she didn't want to discuss Sherlock's idiot actions and the idea of explaining what the unintentional bonds meant on a personal level was far too intimate a thing for her to talk about with him. As a general concept, she had no qualms about it, and indeed it was a common enough occurrence in the medical field... between married and bonded couples that is. But with John she would have had to explain it in great detail so that he would understand. That was right on the list of inappropriate things alongside naked pictures of one's spouse and sleeping with your neighbor's husband. It was a bit not good.

                For second, that was her brother's fault, so it was her brother's job.

                When she had finished, she waited for it to sink in a few minutes before speaking again. "I know it's a lot to take in, John. And I'm really sorry this has happened to you. For what it's worth, nearly all of the surviving attackers have been either sent to Azkaban or have already met with swift justice by _other means_." From the way John glanced up at her she knew he understood what it meant. Mycroft had dealt with them, in his own fashion.

                "If there's nothing else then I'll-"

                "Was that really Mary?" John asked, his voice matching the pained expression he now gave her. "The one who..."

                She shrugged. "You call her Mary, but to us she's known by another name. The Lady Maria Astoria Moran. Widow. Younger than I am, and she was very powerful. She escaped from Azkaban, where Sco... Mycroft and I placed her after Sherlock broke her hold over you." She glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock, and didn't look away as she continued. "It doesn't matter now. What's done is done. You'll need to speak with my brother about the rest."

                She waited for John to respond, but when no response came she stood. "I'll go inform the others of your progress. If you like, I can warn them off for another day until you're feeling up for visitors."

                "Sherlock wants to leave," he said.

                "And I want to play Quidditch. Neither is going to happen any time soon. Brother," she said a bit louder. "I'll unfreeze you. But you must stop packing. John isn't leaving until I've cleared him to travel."

**o0o**

                Five heads turned to look towards the door of the small, informal dining room when two extra plates appeared on the table. Beside one another and in front of two empty chairs. John appeared first, followed very closely by Sherlock. The family watched in silence as John walked unsteadily, but under his own steam, to the nearest empty seat, across from Mycroft.

                "He's still alive," Lestrade said with a big grin on his face. He'd been worried, even after Lily had told them his fellow muggle would be fine. "Good God man, you had us all scared half to death!"

                John gave a weak smile and an uneasy laugh. "What doesn't kill you," he said, and it was obvious he hadn't the faintest clue what he could possibly say to make the situation less tense.

                With a pop, a house elf arrived to pull back the chair for him. Sherlock, on the other hand, shooed it away with a low growl before doing it himself.

                "God damn it Sherlock I'm not made of glass!" John snapped suddenly, glaring at him and pushing his hands away from the chair. "Sit down and leave me be for five bloody minutes!"

                Harry glanced to Lily for some sort of explanation. She only shrugged as the two men sat down beside one another. Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he brought a teacup to his lips. After a few awkward moments of tense silence, Draco cleared his throat. "We are all relieved to see you in good health." He looked to Harry, a pleasant expression on his face despite the delicate mood around the table. "I believe the last muggle to encounter a dementor so closely had been your horrendous cousin Dudley, if I'm not mistaken."

                Sherlock glared towards the head of the table where his father sat. If looks could kill...

                Harry nodded, hurriedly trying to fill the vocal void. "Oh yes. Well, the last documented case that is. There's plenty more that go unnoticed, but less so these days since there isn't a war on. But yes. He had to spend the following six months in the country at his aunt Marge's. Apparently the fresh air was meant to help him recover quicker."

                "Why is my plate covered in chocolate?" John said suddenly, looking around at all the others. Sure enough, everyone else had typical luncheon fare. Meats, cheeses, sandwiches. Mycroft had some sort of vegetable soup. No doubt part of his diet. But John... Chocolate.

                "Sorry," Lily said. "I told them to bring it to you upstairs. To nibble on in small amounts. It helps raise the serotonin levels, which allows those affected by the dementors to recover quicker and easier."

                Harry couldn't help but smile and give a blurted laugh, drawing John's attention away from his plate. "It really does help. I'm sure, being a muggle, you've heard the story about my third year at Hogwarts?"

                Lily looked to her brothers uneasily after watching the scowl appear on her father's face before he buried his attention back into his newspaper. Sherlock visibly tensed, and Lestrade suddenly found the bit of potato on his plate the most interesting thing in the world.

                John swallowed and gave a nod, remembering Sherlock's warnings before about bringing up those books in conversation. "Y... Yes. Actually, that was the very one I'd read while in hospital." He glanced at the others before continuing. "So chocolate really does work?" he asked cautiously.

                Harry gave a nod. "Remus always had a bit of it in his pocket. Madame Pomfrey used to keep a block in her stores as big as Hagrid's head. It never seemed to get any smaller, no matter how much she hacked off and gave out."

                Draco snorted. "And you'd know. You were in the infirmary so much they kept a bed reserved for you."

                Mycroft couldn't help but smirk."Oh yes. I believe by the time I had arrived they had placed a plaque on the wall above it, proclaiming it to be the personal bed of The Boy-Who-Lived-Twice."

                Harry's cheeks turned red. Lily watched from the corner of her eye as John picked up a piece of chocolate. He inspected it closely before putting it into his mouth. Just past him, Sherlock quietly pushed his plate towards his friend before picking up his teacup for a sip.

                She hid her smile behind her sandwich and listened as everyone bickered and argued over which newspaper monikers Harry hated the most and whether or not the secret chambers of Rowena Ravenclaw could be accessed through the Room of Requirement or if one had to search the Ravenclaw common room for them.

                As lunch began winding down, Harry had left to help Draco to his study. Greg had been forced to get between the brothers to keep them from plotting complete world domination or destruction. He couldn't be sure which, really.

                House elves popped in and out to clear the table around the two remaining bodies. John sagged back in his chair with a groan. He was still a bit sore, and his head hurt like hell. But it was pounding long before he'd come down for lunch.

                "I'm surprised you're up and about," Lily said after a while. "If my brother had his way, you'd probably be handcuffed to the bed."

                John shook his head. "That's a vision I really didn't need right now."

                She frowned, watching him closely as he picked at the remainder of what was supposed to have been Sherlock's lunch. "Do you want to talk about it? I mean, you don't have to. That's entirely up to you. But I find sometimes-"

                "I don't need a bloody therapist."

                "No, you don't. But you do need someone who actually understands what the hell is going on," she replied, a bit harsher than she'd realized when she saw John tense. Then, she softened just a bit. "Look, I don't know or understand what exactly you've gone through. I've never faced down a dementor close up. Mummy has, and he might be able to help you make some sense of it. As for everything else, well... if you feel weirder than usual, or strange spots show up. Let me know so I can have a look. I am, after all, a trained medical professional."

                She watched his face as he continued to nibble and pick at the food before he finally pushed it away. A pop sounded, and a fresh pot of tea was placed on the table, with more chocolates before the elf that had delivered them disappeared again. John stared at the teapot, his hands in his lap - the fingers of one wrapped around the cuff on his opposing wrist. She noticed this, but didn't say anything. She suspected her brother may have told him something of it after all. Her suspicions were confirmed when he broke the heavy silence that had fallen.

                "This thing saved my life," he said as she poured them both a fresh, hot cup of tea. She didn't know how he took it, exactly, so she left his as it was in front of him. "He said it has to come off, though. When we get home."

                She sat back and sipped her tea, peering over the rim of her cup before setting it back down on a saucer. "And it should. He shouldn't have put it on you in the first place." She turned, getting more comfortable and crossing her legs. One arm draped over the back of her chair. "At least not before telling you exactly what it was and what it's used for."

                He finally reached out for his cup, moving it closer and not bothering to fix it the way he liked. She sighed. He probably wouldn't be drinking it then. Such a waste of a nice Earl Grey. But he held it, both hands wrapped around it like the delicate bone china was a common ceramic mug. "Thing is, I don't think I want him to take it off."

                "He told you it lets you see things in our world muggles don't normally get to see."

                He nodded.

                "And that it marks you as a muggle who's been allowed to come here. A sort of passport between our two worlds."

                Again he nodded.

                "He told you it protects you from stray hexes and spells."

                A third time, he nodded.

                "He also told you Greg wears one as well."

                "Yeah."

                "And you know _why_ Greg wears one? That it lets him live in our world as easily as my brothers live in yours?"

                He thought for a long moment. Then slowly, he nodded. She wasn't sure what was going through his mind, and she wasn't that great a legillimens that she'd try it on an unsuspecting muggle to find out either. "You said before," he started. "You lot give these to muggles when you want to, what? Bring us into your world? But that's not all. You were going to say something in the library, but you'd changed the subject." He paused and looked up at her, and she swore in that instant, from the look he gave her, that no matter what he asked or said she would have no other recourse but to answer and agree. She wondered, briefly, how often her brother was put under that stubborn and determined stare.

                "Greg wears one, because he's shagging Mycroft. Real shocker that one. But makes sense really. After everything... It's like some sort of weird wizard engagement thing for muggles, isn't it. We don't have magic so it's not like we can actually do the whole traditional wizardy... whatever it is you lot do instead of a proper proposal with flashy ring and everything."

                It was her turn to nod. "Yes," she said. "Wizards give them to muggles they intend to bond with. If they formally marry, then the cuffs generally are removed and replaced with a proper wedding ring. Helps to blend in with muggle society. And before that, the bracelets and cuffs can be hidden under sleeves. Or trouser legs if it's one for an ankle." She could feel her cheeks heating up as she explained.

                "And your idiot brother just slapped it on me, no other explanations than what I can benefit from it. Did he have any intention of ever taking it off me? I tried to pry the damn thing off after you left earlier and he'd told me... but-"

                "It won't. I know. He's the only one that can take it off you, otherwise I would have done so after you'd woken up." She frowned then, recalling his earlier statement. "I thought you said you didn't want him to do it."

                "I'm weighing my options."

                She nodded. Obviously she was meant to give him further information that her brother did not volunteer. With a sigh, she reached for her cup again and took another sip. "Alright. You want to see how far the rabbit hole goes. Fair enough. Did he tell you exactly how it saved your life then?"

                "It sort of put me in the coma, so he said."

                "Yeah. It did. After the dementor tried to suck the soul right out of you. I don't know how to really put this in terms you can understand. I've never... I mean, this is so intimate a subject and it really should be my brother telling you this-"

                "But he won't. No matter what you or I say, he won't tell me a damn thing other than I'll be fine. And he still won't tell me what happened to Mary-"

                "One thing at a time!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "The Mary thing, he'll have to tell you at some point. He was in there with you, not me. And Mycroft didn't break in with the cavalry until the end. As for this, this I can tell you." She pointed to his wrist, the silver gleaming in the light from the chandelier above. She swallowed hard, trying to put her words in order. "Alright," she said under his open and expectant gaze. "Thing is, when it tried to take your Spark, that's what we call it when the glowy soul thing comes out, the wild magic of the binding bracelet reacted. But the entire time you've been wearing it, it's been linking you magically to my brother. Binding you to him. That's what it does." She paused, waiting for him to comment. He never did, so she continued. "In order to do this, it draws on his magic, and creates a sort of bridge, or loop. Because you're muggle, the bracelet acts as an anchor for his magic. Well, when it reacted... it sort of forced a connection. And I can't tell you specifics without further study."

                His eyes narrowed now as he processed the information, seeming to silently press her for a further explanation.

                "Preliminary testing after his frankly dangerous heroics with your well being showed traces of magic where there should be absolutely none. I mean, I'd believed with everyone else that the pair of you were... you know..." She paused to see if he'd take the bait, but he remained silent. She didn't know if he was contemplating her words or sitting in a silent fury. It was so very hard to tell with those she hardly knew. She swallowed hard. "Clearly it's not the case. Sorry for any assumptions on my part. Mycroft didn't exactly clarify it for anyone. And we were just so happy m brother found someone who can stand him for longer than five minutes without trying to kill him." She shrugged. Still, a stony silence.

                She opened her mouth, but then he finally spoke. "I have magic now. Is that what you're saying?"

                Lily shook her head. "No. Not... Not like that. Oh... how can I put this in terms you can understand."

                "Try."

                "It's like, it's like, erm... cats. Like, they'll rub their faces all over everything right. Put their scent on it. Basically, it's like that. Only with magic. He's basically rubbed his face all over your soul so everyone and everything knows to keep away."

                "He's bloody marked me like some..." He stood from his chair, hands unwrapping from his cup and slamming the table in tightly controlled anger. "Like some giant cat!"

                She winced at his tone, knowing she'd not quite explained it properly. But it was too late to take back her words now. Even if she tried to obliviate the last five minutes from his mind, her brother would hex her back into her preteens. "John, it isn't- Let me try again! He didn't intend for that to happen!"

                He was storming off, and she knew she just had to catch him before he found Sherlock. She nearly had to run to catch up with him. To see him, no one would suspect that up until that morning he was laid up in bed, out cold from the world. "John! It was an accident!" She reached out for his arm, barely getting her nimble fingers on his bicep and holding on tight. He turned a venomous blue glare at her; a sapphire volcano waiting to explode.

                "Wild magic has consequences. That's what's in that bracelet. He foolishly used it to try and keep you safe while you're here. My family still has a lot of enemies, and he just wanted to make sure you were protected."

                "He doesn't bloody think about these things!" John railed angrily. "I don't need protecting!" He pulled away from her and continued on. He didn't know, exactly, where he was heading. The manor was far too big for him to remember every twist and turn. But he hadn't cared one bit. He just had to get away from her, and find Sherlock.

                "You stupid muggle!" she called after him when it became apparent that he wasn't going to stop, and she couldn't force him to. _"He protects you because he's in **love** with you!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys don't hate us for this cliffhanger!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.
> 
> ****For an explanation of why this bloody chapter took so bloody long, please see the note at the end of the chapter.

“And with that, I’m afraid, I’ll have to leave you.” She sat back with a self satisfied smirk on her face, looking up to see John standing in the doorway. He’d been there for quite a while, shoulder pressed into the frame, arms crossed over his jumper clad chest.

Harriet pouted, and Hudson sounded accusatory as he waggled a little finger at his aunt. “It was just getting to the good part!”

“What do you mean ‘just getting’? The whole ruddy thing is a good part!”

John watched as his sister-in-law and son squabbled, the boy leaning forward, as did his aunt. Harriet sat with her arms around her knees, pouting, when she noticed her daddy standing the doorway. Before she could open her mouth, he made his presence known to his children. “No, I won’t be telling you any more tonight.”

“But-“

“No buts,” John insisted. “It’s time for the pair of you to be off to dream land.”

Hudson puffed out his cheeks, stamped his foot, and stormed out of the room. John had just enough time to turn and make space for him to pass. Harriet looked nearly like she was about to cry. Her daddy started to come over, but Lily shook her head. “It’s a girl thing,” she said with a knowing smile and shooed him away. “You go deal with little Mr. Know-it-All.”

“But-“

She gave a light laugh. “No buts, John. Shoo. Shoo!” She made the shooing motion with her hands again, causing Harriet to give a stuffy nosed little laugh. Once John had been sufficiently shooed away, or so the girls had thought (he was really standing just outside the room where they couldn’t see him) Lily opened her arms. “Come here, my little hedgie.” Harriet got to her feet, rubbing at her cheek and climbed up in her auntie’s lap. “Now then. What’s got you all turned about the wrong end, eh? Is it where I left the story off?”

Slowly, the little girl nodded.

“Well, you’ve nothing to worry about. You know how it turns out in the end. After all, there’s you and your brother. And your soon-to-be little hedgie, and your daddy and your father made you guys happen. So there’s really no need to worry about a silly old story.”

Harriet sniffled and looked at her aunt like she’d grown a second, and possibly a third, head. “I know THAT!” she snapped.

Outside the room, John had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing at his daughter’s tone. It was so very much like her father.

Lily huffed. “Then I don’t see why you’re so sad. I mean, if you know it’s all got a happy ending-“

“It’s so terribly romantic!” she protested, her nose stuffy and her cheeks just a little damp at the tops where she’d done her best to keep from crying. “And then there’s you and gran and grandfather and uncle Greggy and uncle Crofty caught up in the middle.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave a matter-of-fact nod. “And daddy just has to be told these things, because he’s so terribly dense. Father says in the old days, when people would talk and say things about them, daddy always got upset and corrected them. But father corrects everyone about everything, and he never said a word about it. You’d think daddy would have caught on, but he’s so obtuse. And then you just blurt it out, because he really needed to hear it and father wasn’t going to say it because he’s also so terribly obtuse and it’s all just coming together so… so…” And that’s when the tiny tears finally started.

Lily gave a small little smile. The kind she reserved only for “girl talk time” with her friends. Then she gave a little peck on her nieces wet cheek. “Romantic. In a strange, weird, hilarious sort of way.”

Harriet nodded.

“And you got all that, just from these little stories?” Again the child nodded, and wiped at her face with her arms. “Crikey, I sometimes forget you hedgies are just like my brother in the brains.”

Harriet sniffled. “Don’t let Hudson’s hissy get to you,” she said earnestly. “He doesn’t get it. He just likes the story, and the action and the excitement. He doesn’t… he doesn’t understand the rest. He’s gotta have the facts.”

Lily’s expression softened. Her niece and nephew were far smarter than she’d ever given them credit for. And far more different than was obvious. “That’s because you’ve both got your father’s brilliant, wonderful brain,” she said. Then she reached up and tapped her niece’s chest, right in the middle with a kind smile. “But I think you’ve got more of your daddy in you than people think.”

John chewed his lip in thought as he listened, the pair of them moving from that topic to something far more cheerful. As quietly as he could, he slipped away to go check on his son and make sure he was getting ready for bed and not trying to sneak about to the attic again. In the forefront of his thoughts, he couldn’t help but fit the pieces together. A lot of Hudson’s quirks now made much more sense. He’d thought, originally, that it was just the two were at the age where they would begin to be their own people rather than a matching set. Now he was a little more worried. Harriet seemed alright, if only a little extra sensitive really. But that was alright. It made sense, since she usually knew where the boundaries were and didn’t cross them. She’d get close, she’d push, but knew when to just stop if things were getting bad.

He’d always believed Hudson was just fussy. Complaining because he didn’t get his way. And his deducing fits that could bring adults to absolute tears, he’d thought, were just his way of acting out.

Now he realized that was not the case. The boy honestly just didn’t get it. He honestly didn’t understand. Just like…

“I think I’m going to need help with this one,” he sighed as he made his way towards the children’s room to poke his head in; make sure Hudson was getting along alright. Yes. A nice long conversation with Harry would be ideal - especially since according to Lily the newest addition would be just as bad, if not worse.

Well, at least his daughter had a good grasp on human emotion and social protocol, even if she was only five.

**o0o**

John spent the night fetching Sherlock all manner of useless items. Things he insisted he must have. Yet the moment he had them in hand, he no longer wanted them. That was, until John had set the skull on the bedside table in precisely the position Sherlock had insisted upon. Its macabre grin and sightless eyes facing the bed as Sherlock had settled back into a comfortable rest.

His muggle sighed, letting Sherlock drape limbs across him and steal the blankets in the night to cocoon himself like a burrito. Unable to sleep himself, he thought about the conversation he had overheard passing between his sister-in-law and his daughter. For as young as she was, she knew her parents far better than either of them had realized. Certainly she picked up more on common sense and social interactions than Sherlock did.

“You’re thinking too loud. I can’t sleep,” Sherlock muttered, turning his head to stare into the darkness at his husband.

John didn’t need light to see that Sherlock was quite annoyed with him. “Sorry love,” he said, turning onto his side to face him. “It’s just…”

“You’re clearly not worried. But something is weighing heavily on your mind. You won’t be able to sleep until you have fully processed it. And because you can’t sleep, I won’t sleep.” He shifted in his blanket burrito until he was able to prop himself up a bit on his pillows. “You might as well tell me about it while I’m disposed to listen.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Wrong. If it were nothing, you would be snoring into my ear right now with your hand down the front of my pants. This is clearly something.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and John felt his penetrating gaze fall upon him. “I am losing what little patience I have left.”

John sighed, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock’s thigh and missing by just over an inch. So he scooted closer and tried again. This time he found his mark, leaving it to rest on top of surprisingly cool silk. “You know if you took the cooling charm off your trousers you wouldn’t need all the blankets.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Sherlock replied testily. “And if not for my current problem of producing twice as much body heat due to your parasitic spawn currently using my abdomen as his place of residence, then I would clearly not need the additional help with temperature regulation.”

John gave another sigh, this time a tired and resigned one as he gave a gentle squeeze to Sherlock’s thigh. “Alright, alright. No need for that.” He pulled his hand back and shifted to sit up some so he wouldn’t strain his neck trying to look up at him in the dark. When he was settled, he still felt the piercing gaze upon him. “I… Lily was telling the kids the story earlier.”

“I had gathered that. They demand it of anyone who will take the time.”

“Well, it really upset Harriet, the part she told them.” He paused, then thought he’d better clarify and quickly added, “But in a good way. At least, I think. I don’t know…”

“How far did she get into the story?” Sherlock asked, his tone one of consideration.

“When she… Well, after I found out about your magical marking of my soul.”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock said as if this were the most mundane idea he had ever heard. “From your mood I had thought it were something more serious.”

“This is serious,” John said. “The fact that we don’t communicate upset her.”

“Ah…” Sherlock said and John could hear the faint smile in his voice. “She got as far as blurting out my feelings for you. Well, that certainly would upset someone as sensitive as Harriet. Hudson, I imagine, was more upset that the story was not continued.”

“I… well…”

“And now you’re worried that Hudson’s lack of social and emotional understanding is a preliminary sign of a greater psychological problem inherent in my genetic material.”

He scratched his chin, translated that from Sherlockain to English in his head. “Well… I suppose. But your social awkwardness has an explanation. It’s part of your creature thing.”

“Quite.”

“And Hudson isn’t a creature.”

“No, he is not.”

“So-“

“Too early to tell. He does express emotion, and no he doesn’t mimic it. He has minor difficulty translating proper social protocol due to his two very different examples on the subject. Harriet has obviously taken you as her dominant example in these matters. Not surprising since you subconsciously assumed the domestic caretaker role in our relationship. She has shown early signs during play and in her development of wanting both a family and a career. Once more, in this respect she has taken you as her prime example. Whereas Hudson-“

“Okay,” John interrupted, turning to face him and knowing that in the dark it was pointless to give him an annoyed look. “Did you just in a roundabout way call me a mother hen?”

“Don’t be so pedestrian, John.”

“Right. Obviously-“

“Despite my biological role, I lack maternal instincts. Your natural affinity for taking care of others, which is one of your greatest assets may I add, has filled that need.”

“So basically you’re saying I’m a mother.”

“What exactly do you find so offensive about that? The most powerful wizard to exist since Merlin is, in fact, a mother. My mother, actually. There is nothing wrong with being a mother.”

He didn’t have an answer. It wasn’t offensive, really. It was just… Well… John had never really thought of himself in terms like that.

“And now you’re thinking back on our relationship with the children and realizing that I am right. Let’s skip this argument and move on to the original problem weighing on your mind shall we? Before I get bored with this and kick you out of bed.” Sherlock paused long enough to give John the impression that he was waiting for an actual answer. So when one was started it was rudely cut off. “As I stated before, Harriet sees you as her primary example of behaviour. Her natural sensitivity to human nature draws her attention to you more than it does to me. Whereas Hudson lacks the depth of her emotional understanding, therefore he turns his attentions towards me, and uses my behaviors as a basis for his own. The flaw is that there is a reason for my lack of understanding. I simply lack the capacity to connect with others outside my own instinctual bonds. He does not have this impediment.

“I suggest to correct this before it becomes a problem for him later in life, we allow him to interact with other children his own age as well as with other adults who display a wider emotional range than myself. There are other children in Godric’s Hollow. Take them to the park and let them seek out their own age appropriate peers in the safety of a well warded village rather than the dangers of London.”

Sherlock reached over to give John’s arm a gentle stroke before sliding back down to stretch out and curl up under his blankets. “Problem solved. Now go to sleep.”

“But-“

“Sleep. Or I will kick you out of the bed.”

**o0o**

Lily had stayed for much of the following day to ensure her brother kept from using magic for even the simplest of tasks. And the story had been forgotten, for the time being, as John took the children out each day after to the park.

As they made friends with the other children of the village. Taught the wizard children muggle games while they taught wizarding ones of their own. At first Sherlock accompanied them, not wanting to remain home more than he had to. But as time passed (and his abdomen grew) he stayed back more and more. His attitude also became harder and harder to handle after the day the twins presented a boy they’d befriended at the park and demanded he come home for dinner.

Poor John had to explain carefully why that wasn’t such a good idea for Eustace to be anywhere even remotely near the cottage. Something to do with Sherlock, nesting, and wanting to hex strangers or some such nonsense.

Not anything he hadn’t had to deal with the first time around. Just a bit more intense was all.

The opportunities for more stories had dried up as well. More and more of their dad’s free time was spent taking them out to the park, or the shops, and looking after their father and his delicate condition. It was not until January that things began to settle down, and the family had been in the cottage for a solid three months, that the opportunity once more arose for the twins to hear the next part of the rather long tale of their parents’ second Christmas.

But in all that time, they never forgot a single piece of what they had heard so far. Harriet and Hudson often argued into the night over what their dad had done when finally he knew their father’s feelings. Each knew of John’s temper, once he lost his seemingly eternal patience. And they also knew well Sherlock’s ability to easily lie and put on an act. After all, they had learned from the best. They knew, of course, that by the next winter holiday the two men were married and expecting - it was just how they had gotten to such a state, or rather, the beginning of how they had gotten there, that eluded them.

Harriet argued that the two men had finally had a confrontation, wherein Sherlock was forced to speak his heart while John had been forced to closely examine his own. Hudson was for a theory that involved Mrs. Hudson, a potted rosebush, and veritaserum in John’s tea.

Just when the duo had finally come to the decision to pester their parents about it John had called them upstairs, where their father was sitting on the bed and balancing a bowl on his stomach filled with his disgusting curry, ice cream, pickles, and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“I know we haven’t exactly been giving you two much attention for a while,” John said guiltily as Sherlock, between bites, motioned for the twins to join him in the mountain of pillows on the bed. “And I’m really sorry-“

“Don’t be. Aunt Lily told us-“

“I don’t care what she told you. You’re five and you need your parents more than we’ve done.”

“Not as if I could do much in the state I am in,” Sherlock said, taking another bite. “Especially with this thing using my internal organs as his playthings.”

John sighed and moved some to make a bit more room for the children amongst the pillows. “And truth be told, we weren’t sure exactly how to move on from-“

“When Aunt Lily shouted that father loved you,” Hudson interrupted, and his sister nodded.

John rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks turning a bit pink. “Yes. Well… There was that…”

“Yes. I have a theory,” Hudson said.

Harriet nodded again, her curls bouncing about. “As do I.”

Sherlock licked his spoon before setting it in his empty bowl. “Would you care to explain?”

“Of course not!” Hudson exclaimed as if offended. “I’ve not enough data to form a sound hypothesis. Until then I’ll keep my theories to myself rather than sound like an idiot if proven wrong.”

Sherlock smiled. “And you say I’m a terrible role model,” he said, this dig directed at his husband.

John the Long Suffering gave a long suffered sigh. “No. You’re the one who keeps saying that. I’m the one who reminds you you’re being an idiot.”

After listening to their parents banter for a while longer, the twins finally managed to draw them out into what they were determined to hear. The Story. To their surprise, it was not their dad who began, but their father.

“I believe,” he said, “John has told me your aunt had so cruelly left off at the point where she had revealed my motivation for having safeguarded your dad for so long. What she did not know at the time had been that while she had been with John, your uncle Mycroft had drawn me away under the guise of a conversation wherein we hypothesized the most efficient manners in which one could achieve world domination. It was a game between us, you see, to pit two imagined dictators against one another in a bid for power. A strategic and tactical exercise that kept our minds sharp. In the wizarding world, there are always those who see to follow the footsteps of Grindlewald and Lord Voldemort. Therefore, the exercises are both educational and practical should the need ever arise-“

“You’re straying from the point, love,” John said playfully.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Quite right. Mycroft had drawn me away under such a pretense. Gregory had accompanied us, no doubt unnerved by our conversation choice. However soon it was clear, once my brother had drawn me well away from John, that he had decided to meddle into my personal affairs…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's why we were so behind on this one. There's been 2 engagement announcements, a grandmother in the hospital over Christmas, job searching, commissioned work, the making of Christmas presents, five different people coming down with the flu, and this last monday (Dec. 31) one of us went to see the Hobbit and was Hobbit!locking all day afterwards. So... yeah. Oh, and a serious war between cousins (but not the writers of this fic, thank goodness!) that forced us to drop down to using one computer for a while. So yeah, there was that little war amongst the family crisis going on at Christmas. We'll do our best to get chapter 27 up a bit quicker! Also, happy belated new year!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

"So you're not actually planning to take over the world?" Lestrade asked, though it was clear he didn't quite believe this.

Mycroft tutted, and Sherlock tried not to scoff. "Greggory, dear," Mycroft started. "If I honestly wished to rule the world, I need only make one phone call and the crowns of all the kingdoms in all the world would be placed upon my head."

"That's a bit of a stretch Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

"Not much of one, brother. Alas, my dreams of complete world domination are just that. Dreams." Mycroft settled into his favorite chair. This was, Sherlock had noted, his brother's domain. Even as children this unused wing of the manor had become Mycroft's little kingdom. Standing as he was by the sole window in the room, he could easily see the influence of their ancestors in the decor. This room, this entire wing of the manor was steeped in dark magic - but had been drastically different from the poison that had oozed from the old house in the wake of Voldemort. No, this was a natural darkness. Native to their family, on their father's side of course. And oddly Sherlock found it comforting. Less restricting than the warm and welcoming magic that now permeated the main living quarters where the family took residence.

He stood with his shoulder pressed against the wood, his arms crossed over his shoulders as he watched the ash tree in the distance bend just a little under the wind. He was reminded, then, that he and his brother had not always been on such ill terms. That once, before Sherlock had become this... creature, they had been thick as thieves. Why, he'd never admit it out loud of course, be he had once been proud to be known as Mycroft's younger brother.

He had not realized the sigh of contentment he let out, nor the peaceful expression he had let slip into his face as he stood there. Not until Lestrade made comment.

"I don't think I've ever seen you smile like that. Well, not without John around."

Sherlock turned his gaze to the inspector, watching him carefully and scrutinizing his every movement as Mycroft convinced him that it was safe to leave them be. Just for a little while. And that no, they wouldn't try to kill one another either so there was no need to come back to check later.

Once alone, Sherlock turned his eyes back to the tree outside. Back to the wind and the cold and the comforting feel of that ancient dark magic as he let it seep into his bones.

He felt Mycroft move before he heard him. Moving back to his favorite chair. The elder knew better than to try and convince his brother to join him. And instead sat watching. Waiting for him to come over on his own as if he were some dangerous animal that may yet turn and bite the offered hand.

He may just very well do that, before the end. If only out of spite.

"Sherlock," he said when it was clear the younger would not move from his chosen spot in the near future. "We need to discuss what happened."

"There is nothing to discuss. Mother has told you what I have told him. There is nothing more to know."

"They found her head on a pike!" Mycroft snapped angrily, but then checked himself. "In plain view of muggles. Tell me what happened."

"We dueled. I won. I took her to the council. They dealt with it. End of story."

"No. Not the end. I need to know-"

"You don't **need** to know anything. You don't hold my secrets anymore Mycroft. Rest assured, I did not kill Mary, though I had every reason and right to do it. I won't deny that I wanted to. And I won't lie - I nearly had done. It was right on the tip of my tongue. I could have said it so easily." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry. I wouldn't have cast the killing curse. It would have been over far too quickly. She deserved worse than she received."

"You can't mean that," Mycroft said, his voice low in disbelief. "Sherlock, you're not a killer."

"No?" He uncrossed his arms, but did not leave his place by the window. Did not turn his head - only his eyes looked on his brother. And even in the narrow slits and the corners Mycroft could see how truthfully wrong he was. "I killed, Mycroft. Because I had no other choice. What did you think I was doing for three years, brother? Did you think I tied them up and threw them to police? Left others bound and gagged for aurors to pick up later? I'm not proud of what I did, except for one. The only one that does not keep me up at night. The only one that doesn't haunt me every moment of every day. I swore I would not come home until every last one was gone. Until I knew, without a single doubt, that John would be safe." At last he turned, and Mycroft saw how truly tired his brother was, even after all these months back from the dead. Back into his old life with his old flat and his old job and his only friend.

"The only reason I didn't kill her, Mycroft, is because I wanted to make her suffer. I wanted to burn the heart out of her. And when I realized what I had become, there was only one recourse. She must be dealt with by a third party. I would not allow myself to become Moriarty. The ministry would only return her to prison. So I went over your head, and went straight to the source of creature law. She was dealt with, according to those laws. The decision was taken out of my hands, and I could return home. Return to John, without compromising myself."

He lapsed back into silence. A soothing, comfortable silence as he turned his attention back to the cold world outside the window. "Is there anything more you wish to know?" he asked after a long stretch. "Or have you decided to chain me in a cell like a wild creature?" The ghost of a smirk graced his lips, and Mycroft knew then whatever darkness had threatened to take his brother from him, it had for the moment passed them by. "I suppose you'll want to hear more of my travels. Or perhaps... You would rather hear of the more intimate details, hm? After all, I'm still finding bugs in the flat. Surely-"

"Sherlock, I don't need nor want to know-"

"But you've wanted to know since day one. In fact you wasted no time in kidnapping John the day he and I met just to satisfy your curiosity. You've not stopped putting your pointy nose in ever since."

"That is because you have begun acting childish and do not wish to speak to me in a civilized manner any longer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his breath out in a huff. "I speak constantly. According to John I hardly stop. You simply do not listen."

"You know what I meant," Mycroft said, a subtle hint of annoyance underlying his words.

And he did know. He simply wanted to act contrary. "I'm not discussing this with you."

"Sherlock-"

"No!" he snapped, not masking his defensiveness. Not masking the distress the very thought of laying himself bare caused him. Least of all to the very one who had betrayed him.

"At least tell John. The poor man is out of his depth. He's a muggle, for Merlin's sake! You cannot expect him to so readily accept all of this, all of you, so quickly and easily."

"Yes, because all muggles are slow witted and need to be eased into knowledge of our world as carefully as Inspector Lestrade! John can handle a crash course in magic and the annoyingly supernatural far better than some of your own seasoned not-so-secret operatives."

"After what that man has just been through," Mycroft replied, his tone harsh and unrelenting. "He deserves to know the absolute **truth**. He needs to know everything. Especially-"

"Yes I can see that going quite well." Sherlock barked out a dark laugh, arms crossed once more, but his hands clasping his forearms. His fingers digging into the sleeves of his designer shirt just to keep himself from lashing out in frustration. To keep from allowing himself to give in to that whisper, to that dark and seductive voice that now sat permanently in the back of his mind. Murmuring to him of how easily he had cut his way through Moriarty's ranks with naught but a bit of wood and a terrible, animalistic rage. That same rage that had surfaced on Christmas Eve. That he had attempted to silence with potions - then drugs - for the better part of his life. That was only still when... No. He dare not think it. "He can hardly handle the fact that magic is real. That wizards are common place. And that our parents are not fictional characters from a children's book. If he knew the full extent of our, of my, abnormality I fear even his mind will snap. That's assuming he can work his way beyond the knowledge that his ex-fiancé was also one of us, though working for Moriarty. And that she never loved him the way that I... No, Mycroft. It's for the best that in some respects, John remain ignorant of the facts."

He turned his back fully to the room, unwilling to subject himself to his brother's gaze that could rip him apart easier than anyone else ever could. Had always done. He failed, then, to note his brother's subtle change in tone as he answered back, slightly distracted by something in the room behind him.

"You could attempt something simpler. More direct and on a smaller scale. You've often commented that you can only predict what John will say with a mere 62 percent accuracy. You may be surprised."

Had Sherlock been facing the room, been paying closer attention, he would not have spoken. Yet, like all petulant children he was absorbed in himself once a foul mood set in. "Yes," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Because using the excuse that love makes one incapable of making sane and rational decisions is always a good idea. If I wanted to spend a day and a half listening to John loudly declare to empty warehouses how staunchly heterosexual he is, I would point out yet another highly inaccurate tabloid article printed on the subject of such trivial personal matters." He stopped for a breath, suddenly aware of the eerie silence that had fallen behind him. That there were not two eyes, but four trained on his back. And the low, pleasant hum of his magic just beneath his skin as it responded to the new presence. "No..." he said, dropping the sarcasm for a rare show of sincerity. "No. I'd much rather just go home, have a cup of tea, and shout at crap telly. Get back to work. Back to my distractions. It is far easier to ignore annoying and uncomfortable human emotions in London than in Wiltshire."

The silence that followed his words hung heavy with expectation that something was about to happen. Something that would not, could not ever be taken back.

Sherlock knew, then, that John had already heard too much. He knew Mycroft had purposely not pointed out his presence, taking advantage of his younger brother's penchant for warping words and spinning them into his own little world of noise with little regard to those around him. He also knew, thinking back on the last his brother had added to the exchange, that he should have realized then they were no longer alone. He did not dare to speak first, but he also did not turn around. Instead he turned his head. Just enough to barely see John from the corner of his eye. Just enough so he knew John could scarcely make out his face. So the vulnerability he so hated that the other man brought out in him could not be so openly viewed.

"So..." John said, drawing out the syllable to feel out the mood of the room. "Are we not going to say anything about the fact you are a COMPLETE IDIOT!" By the end, John was shouting.

Easily the brothers picked out the confusion, shock, frustration, more confusion, and eventually a surprisingly endearing anger.

Finally, having felt he had gained as much control over his facial expressions as he could under these circumstances, Sherlock turned to face his friend. John's face, even his ears, were red. His blue eyes narrowed and focused on the detective. His hands at his sides were clenching and unclenching. A clear sign of his self restraint - he could easily snap and throw a punch at one or both of them at any moment. But all his attention was on Sherlock, who for once was quite glad of the distance between them.

As Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, John cut his eyes over to him and instantly that silver tongued snake was cowed into silence. Had anyone else been present, they'd have been amazed that such a feat were possible with a single look. Sherlock was simply glad that he had not been on the receiving end of such a stare... this time. "You," John said. "Have caused enough trouble with all the shit you have or haven't said. Keep quiet and I **won't** call your mother."

The beginnings of a smirk graced Sherlock's otherwise blank face, but when John looked at him once again it was wiped off quickly. "First, I don't spend a day and a half correcting people. It's less than five minutes anymore, if even that. And in case it's escaped even your notice - I only correct people who _assume_ we're together. Assumptions lead to problems. What is it you always say Sherlock? Never assume anything before you have all the data." He threw this last statement, something Sherlock bandied about quite often on cases to point out how severely wrong so many of the people around him were. "No one ever actually ASKS me, Sherlock. Not a single time. Not that it's anyone's business but mine, and yours since you live with me and would likely have noticed."

"I never assumed," Sherlock protested, and would have continued if John had let him.

"Yes you do! All the bloody time! Right from the start you thought I was hitting on you!"

"You were! Your body language and-"

"Okay alright. A little. But Jesus, look at you! You're bloody gorgeous and you know it! But at the time I was mainly concerned with how often I might be coming home to find my flat mate and his whatever rutting like rabbits on the sofa! Kind of something I'd need to be prepared for if you'd had somebody, you think!"

"I don't see how it could have been a problem. I would have texted-"

"This isn't even- No. We're not going to play hypotheticals. I'm supposed to be infuriated with you right now!"

Finally Mycroft felt it was safe to poke his pointy nose in where it didn't belong without getting it smashed in. "Yes. I was hoping you would reach that point soon. Why are you here?"

John scrubbed a hand down his face with a groan, then looked to Mycroft briefly. "Lily told me everything. Well, nearly enough."

"Yes... She does that." Mycroft sighed. "Worse gossip than Aunt Fleur and mother combined." He glanced to his younger brother before rising from his chair. Hands went straight to his waistcoat and gave a short tug to smooth it back out. "I'll have a chat with our darling sister. You two... have issues to work out..."

"Don't go far. You may need to piece your brother back together when I'm through with him."

"Do be gentle, John. He could take you apart with one blow."

"I could take him apart with less than that," John hissed, turning his full attention back to Sherlock. "And right now, I've a mind to."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

Alone.

Alone in Mycroft's domain, where there were sure to be surveillance spells and charms activated the moment his brother had shut the door behind him.

Sherlock's only comfort came from the fact that despite John's explosive anger and rather powerful right hook, he was in no real physical danger. "So if people simply asked rather than assumed-"

"Not the time for it, Sherlock," John replied in a warning tone. Letting him know quite clearly that right now, he wasn't going to deal with that particular admission.

Sherlock gave a curt nod then. "Tea?" he tried, knowing John's ever predictable and oh so very English way of problem solving always began with the drink.

"No."

"Ah." He gave another curt nod. So it was going to be one of ithose/i sort of discussions. The ones where John wanted to stay angry for as long as possible, which also meant that he needed the anger in order to give him a solid focus. Not get distracted, as Sherlock tended to do to him, by other lesser emotions. He needed to see past sentiment. This, Sherlock realized, was not going to end well.

He sighed in defeat, a particular sound only his mother, John, and Mrs. Hudson had ever heard. "If you wouldn't mind?" He indicated the room itself, and John seemed to understand. He too knew, after finding them, that this was Mycroft's domain.

A few moments and some well placed mufallato spells later Sherlock and John stood with two chairs, a loveseat, and three tables between them. Each man waiting for the other to begin, unwilling to be he who broke the pregnant silence.

When it was clear that John wasn't going to break first, and Sherlock had wanted to get back to Baker Street before Christmas came around again, the detective spoke. "How did you find us? I don't recall having shown you this part of the manor. Did Lily-"

"She didn't. I... I wasn't paying attention."

"None of the house elves?"

"No," John replied, his voice losing the hard edge already, but still resolute in his annoyance. "I just picked a direction and stormed off. Determined to give you a piece of my mind for what you've done to me."

He brought his hands up to his chin, steepling his fingers beneath it in thought. "It's possible the magic you have absorbed had sought out its source. Interesting. We will need to experiment-"

"No experiments Sherlock. None. What the bloody hell did you do to me?! You- I knew you were a jealous, selfish bastard, but this?! I'm not some piece of bloody property you can just rub your whiskers on!" John had come closer, between the chairs and to the first table. Sherlock had remained in place, watching him. Analyzing his movements. The way he waved his hands about. Noting the crescent moons left behind by his nails from the clenching of his fists. "First you run off anyone who smiles at me, and then- What the hell were you thinking?! Did you even do your research when you slapped this damned thing on me?!"

"Clearly, you've spoken to my sister and know that I was not aware of the full extent of the binding bracelet's attributes. I had no intentions of leaving it on you beyond our stay here for the holiday, as I am well aware that it would create complications in both our friendship and our working relationship." He dropped his hands, his arms moving into an open gesture with his palms facing John, as if inviting him to come closer. "As for chasing any prospective intimate partner away, they have all clearly been inferior. Some far too young for you, to be honest, and lacking the desire for a stable and committed relationship. Therefore, you would be content for a year. Maybe two. Then they would leave, and you would be unhappy. I have merely been saving you the trouble. Had a suitable match come along, I would have gladly stood aside and let her whisk you off."

"Sure you would," John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. A familiar sign that he believed Sherlock's words to be little more than lies and excuses, despite the fact that in this instance they were truth. "So you're telling me that every single one of my girlfriends, and by the way there was a rather decent chap in that lot too, were driven off because what? You didn't want to see me get my heart broken?"

"As my only friend," Sherlock said, choosing his words very carefully and hoping his expression and body language matched appropriately, "your happiness has been a chief concern. As have both your physical and mental health. If you are unhappy, it affects the Work. When the Work suffers, we are unable to effectively solve cases. Therefore minute moments of annoyance, and the occasional row, are better than months spent on our sofa bemoaning time wasted on a failed relationship."

"That's..." The tension left John's stance, just a little. "That's oddly altruistic of you... But that still doesn't give you the right to keep doing it."

"Then I will stop."

"No you won't. You never bloody stop. Because you think you know what's best for everyone. Not really much point now, is there though? Not since you've marked me like some oversized cat!"

"That was completely unintentional and I resent that you dare to think I would purposely do such a thing. I despise magic, and the entire world that I come from. Why do you think I prefer to live in muggle London? Surround myself with muggle machines and do every little thing the muggle way? If I could rip it from my very soul and discard it in Mrs. Hudson's rubbish bins, I would do so in an instant!" He moved closer now. But stopped as he reached the love seat. Recoiling as if to move even closer to John would burn him. In truth, he wanted very much to close the distance between them. To stand in front of John and pull him into his arms - if only to silence the voice of the creature in his mind. That thing which had been with him these 60 odd years and only quieted to a whisper when John was near. But now, now that his very magic hummed and surged beneath his skin when in this muggle's presence- No. Such intimacies, he knew, were unwelcome and unwanted.

John had always been very clear on that point.

"But I suppose," he said, a little calmer than he had been, but it was a hard won calm. "It is fortunate that I have yet found a way to do so. As without it, you and I would both be dead. I three years past and you just six months gone."

John frowned. His blue eyes narrowed as Sherlock watched the anger rising back once more. Six months. Sherlock knew he would make the connection to his statement. Connect it to his miraculous return and John's fiancé's distressing disappearance. "Mary."

Sherlock nodded. "Mary."

"That was her, then. It really was her trying to-"

"Kill you. Yes. An associate of her's had distracted me so that she may assume my identity for the short while it had taken to seek you out. My family had been the primary targets, but to discover you here... Well. That was icing on her cake."

"Why would she-" Confusion. "She loved me." Denial. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"I think... Before we pursue that particular topic it would be best if you viewed the evidence against her."

"No. None of this cryptic mystical bullshit. I want-"

Sherlock couldn't meet his steady gaze. "She is dead, John. She had worked for Moriarty. She was planted as a failsafe when Sebastian Moran discovered I was still alive. I did not know this until after I had killed him. After I had returned believing you to be safe. The moment I saw her, I knew her for what she was. Had she been muggle, had she not been an agent of Moriarty, I would not have stood in the way of your nuptials.

"But I could not reconcile the fact that you were about to marry a woman who would murder you at the first opportunity. Most likely, as she later confirmed, on your honeymoon."

Without looking, Sherlock heard the snark. Heard the frustration and the hurt masked by anger in his words. "So again, you were just looking out for my health and happiness."

"If you do not believe me, I will prove it to you the only way I can."

With that, he reached into his sleeve, sliding his wand from the holster strapped to his wrist. He had taken to wearing it again only after administering the potion to John. He moved slowly, so that John could see exactly what he was doing. With his free hand, he reached for a vase, transfiguring it before touching the tip of his ash wood wand to his temple.

John watched as the tip began to glow, similar to the films he had watched (when Sherlock hadn't found his DVDs and mysteriously destroyed them), and knew what his friend was doing. He frowned, and thought to protest that he need not actually see anything. Yet, he held his tongue. Sherlock, he knew, had always strived to prove he was clever. He told people he was right, and if they didn't believe it, well, he would deduce every minute detail. He would tear them to shreds before their friends, family, and co-workers. After they came to the same conclusion, he would remind them he'd told them so from the start.

But never had John seen his friend so desperate to be believed.

So he watched, as Sherlock closed his eyes, letting them flutter just a little as if scouring his mind palace for just the right thoughts. Chasing just the right memories to pull out. Private moments for John to just peruse at his leisure. One. Two tapped into the top of the vase turned phial.

The glowing strands of misty memory, curling and coiling about one another like snakes rather than the liquid substance John had always assumed it would be. Had allowed the films to lead him to believe.

He rounded the love seat then and leaned down to place the phial on the largest of the three tables in the room. He straightened up, and once more had become the master of his emotions. "This, I believe, is all the evidence you will need concerning your late fiancé. As for the... recent encounter I am bound by oath for five years, and can only give the barest detail without risking my own safety. The council I had been made to deal with frown upon outsiders knowing the intricacies of their day to day activities." He paused, waiting for John to object. When no such words came, he continued. "I will say that when I had believed you to be dead, I broke free and took her from this place to an isolated location. We dueled, and I bested her. Rather than take her life myself, I took her to a council which governs certain types of wizards, and she was dealt with according to the law. I will spare you further details because I can already see from the way you are clenching your jaw and the set of your shoulders that the subject is greatly distressing to you, and I do not wish to cause you further upset."

He made to leave when it was clear John would not respond, at least not verbally. Sherlock made a wide arc around the room, to avoid close contact, fearing he may not be able to control himself much longer while in such close proximity to his dearest friend. When he had reached the door, he heard John speak at last. "What you said before," he started. "When you didn't realize I was in the room."

"I meant every word."

"And am I one of your distractions? One of your puzzles?"

"No," Sherlock answered truthfully. "I am unsure where Mycroft keeps his pensive. I will send him in shortly to assist you. After reviewing the data, if you wish, we may continue this discussion in the comfort of my former rooms."

By the time John had turned around, Sherlock was gone. The door closing quietly behind him.

**o0o**

"Is this even safe? For me, I mean."

"Safer than television, actually."

"Is it like in the films?"

Mycroft nodded, but with hesitation. "In most cases, yes. But... not with my brother."

John sighed, rolling his eyes. "Of course. Because he can never let anything be simple."

"As you know Sherlock has a remarkable mind. The way he orders his memories and knowledge is, well, a rather odd system. Quite frankly I can't make any sense of it myself. What few times I have had the privilege to see inside his mind, I came away with a sense of chaos. His memories are quite intense."

John's tone easily showed how wary he had now become at Mycroft's admission. "Intense how?"

"Memories viewed through a pensieve are sight and sound only. Simply a recollection of what has passed. But Sherlock catalogues every detail. More than sight and sound, he records exact smells. The sensations of touch. But most importantly, his emotions during the experience. In his own way, he collects them for later review, seeing such things as data to be collected and analyzed after the fact." At this, John tilted his head just slightly. He was trying to understand what this meant. "Oh yes," Mycroft continued. "Your suspicions that my brother's self-diagnosis of sociopathy is incorrect are well founded. He feels most deeply. He simply excels at masking his emotions and controlling his body. Separating his subjective view from the objective."

Mycroft regarded the phial, sitting where Sherlock had left it. "Whatever you see in the pensieve, remember that it has already taken place. It cannot physically affect you. The emotions you may experience are not your own. Before you look inside, find a piece of information in which to ground yourself. To keep yourself from getting lost and swept up in what you see. Sherlock's memories tend to... replay as if they are actually happening in real time. Be extremely careful, and keep your wits about you John."

"What happens if I don't? If I get swept up?"

Mycroft's eyes softened, but it was the only evidence of his sympathy. "Then you may begin to believe as he has come to believe."

"Which is?"

"That he is monster that cannot be controlled. Cannot be stopped. And does not deserve to live."

* * *

"So after a rather lengthy warning, Mycroft fetched this large, glowing bowl of water. In it he poured the contents of the phial and told me to dunk my head in."

"I've seen grandfather do that. It's quite silly like an ostrich," Hudson said. "Standing there with your bum hanging out. Rather good for kicking."

"You didn't."

"I did," Hudson said proudly.

Harriet turned to John with eyes wide in wonder and curiosity. "What was it like? Looking at things from father's head?"

"It was... Well, it was strange at first. All misty and shadowy. And there was a lot of floating until I thought gravity might still exist. But..." He looked to his dozing husband with a fond smile ghosting his lips. "By the end I understood. Now, this isn't true of everyone, mind, but walking around in your father's memories didn't just show me what happened. Mycroft was right, when he said I'd feel things. And it told me what he couldn't. You know he's not very good with feelings."

At this the two curly blond topped heads nodded.

"If there were any doubts about how your father felt about me, well by all accounts they were tossed out the window."

Hudson leaned closer, balancing precariously on the pillow he'd taken as his seat. "What did you see?"

"Lots of things," John said. "His first duel against Mary and after that when your uncle took him home to look after him."

"What else?" Harriet pressed eagerly, arms wrapped around John's pillow. "Oh please daddy, what else!"

John laughed, recalling the images he had seen in the pensieve a little over six years ago. None of them were cheerful, but the twins' childish desire to hear about them, to know every detail - that was what caused him to feel so light about such heavy matters. "Imagine your father with red hair. More of a Weasley red, really. And," he said, watching their heads turn towards Sherlock. "A bright yellow shirt. I think he had khaki slacks as well."


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Important!  
> This story switches between the past and the present A LOT. Seriously.... it's the structure of the entire story.  
> We call it the HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) Method. We're sorry in advance.
> 
> o0o = denotes scene changes  
> lines across denote time period changes.
> 
> This was the best we could do.

"Denims, John. Dark blue denims," Sherlock mumbled sleepily. He'd been dozing since John had taken over the storytelling.

The twins giggled in stereo. "I thought you'd gone to sleep," John said.

"How can I sleep when this infernal beast is using my kidneys for football practice," Sherlock bemoaned. "Just when I begin to drift peacefully into a restful sleep, and right before I manage to enter into a REM cycle, he starts again."

"Maybe he likes the sound of your voice," Hudson suggested. "Gran says that you did that all the time, too. And he had to talk for hours to keep you from kicking about. Try reading a book to him. Gran says he always used to read **Treasure Island** to you to settle you down again."

"It's true, Sherlock. All the baby books say you should talk to your child because the sound of the mo- I mean, parent's voice is comforting and soothing. Doesn't even matter what you say, really. Just that you talk a bit."

Sherlock made a sort of grunting noise as he reached for a book on the nightstand. Clearly the conversation was over. The twin terrors were quickly back on John, badgering him for more.

"Well, I saw an awful lot of what went on those three years we were apart. I even saw, though he hadn't meant for me to see it, his confrontation on the roof just before..." He wiped his eye quickly on his sleeve. "That one. That was when I knew, because I could feel a little of what he did then. And let me tell you, it was absolutely terrifying to find out exactly how much he cared for me."

Sherlock snorted. "As if it hadn't been obvious."

"Because remembering to clear some space in the fridge for my jam is the height of sentimentality."

"Not my fault if you failed to notice my preferential treatment," he said from behind his book.

Harriet tucked the corner of the pillow she hugged beneath her chin. "So after you saw in the pensieve, what happened?"

"It was a hell of a shock. Especially when Mycroft pulled me out of it..."

* * *

John fell back onto the love seat with a grunt. Blue eyes wide and hands shaking.

"Scorpius, the blue one please."

Mycroft tapped the end of his wand against the top of the phial, dropping the memories back into it. Then he retrieved the blue bottle from amongst the few on the table beside the pensieve.

Harry pulled the cork and poured a small portion of the contents into a glass of pumpkin juice. "Here. Drink this. For your nerves."

"I," John said, licking his lips anxiously. "I think I'd rather have a brandy."

"Scorpius."

"Right away mother."

Soon a small tumbler was placed in John's hand. Within moments it had been emptied. A comforting hand had been placed on John's back and was moving slowly in gentle circles. "You just try and relax John. Take slow, deep breaths. That's it. Now... Tell me what possessed you to do something so stupid. And yes, do tell me the part my children have played in this little drama because I know you're a smart man. And you certainly wouldn't have shoved your head in that thing had you known the effects it has on muggles."

And so John did, once he had calmed enough to do so. He told Harry about the bracelet, and then his part in Christmas Eve. He apologized profusely, blaming himself for Mary's attack and, by extension, the deaths of innocent party guests. Though, Harry knew it had little to do with John, he let the muggle go on and gave him another tumbler of brandy. A quick glare at his eldest was all that had been needed to get the man to clear the room.

Once he had calmed again, John explained about his conversations with Lily. Then what led to the act of stupidity - a muggle using a pensieve.

"Ah," Harry said, leaning back and watching the younger man in profile. "If my son told you to drive off a bridge, would you do it?"

"Honestly?"

Harry nodded with a hum.

"I'd complain about it while wondering if we'd blow up when we hit the bottom."

"So that's a yes then."

"Yeah."

They were quiet. Harry trying to figure out how best to proceed. John just trying to reconcile the things he'd seen with his own feelings.

After a few minutes that to John felt stretched into an eternity, Harry spoke. His words were calm, but with a small spark of hope. "You know his feelings. You know how deeply he cares for you. All that remains to be answered is do you care for my son in return?"

John leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands up so that he may stare at them. Stare as if they held the answer in some mysterious code among the callouses and prints. His mind trying to pick out this latest experience from his own chaotic pool of emotion.

"What if I said no?" he asked.

"It would not change his opinions of you, nor his regard for you. The only change would be that now, you would know of it, and know that he has difficulty giving voice to these things."

"He's very single minded. Obsessive. He wouldn't be likely to move on."

Harry shook his head. "No. He wouldn't. But that's something the two of you need to work out on your own."

John scoffed, then muttered, "Tell that to Mycroft."

Harry smiled then placed a gentle hand on John's forearm. The gesture caused him to turn his head and look the old wizard in the face. "I assure you, the meddling of my other children in these personal matters will end very quickly."

He cut his emerald gaze to the phial of memories and let his hand fall away. "But... I would like you to consider the fact that you have gone to a lot of trouble, and put yourself through quite a bit of peril just to understand my son."

"Mr. Potter, Harry," John said. "This holiday, we really hadn't planned for anything to-"

"I wasn't talking about your visit in my home, as eventful as it's become. He said 'dangerous' and yet here you are, still. To spite the rocky road to get here."

He stood, vanishing the pumpkin juice with the calming draught without even taking out his wand. "Vitus!" he called. When the pop of the house elf's arrival sounded it gave John a bit of start. "Take these back to my personal stores. But leave this one." He indicated the memory phial that had caused so much trouble.

"Yes Master Harry. Right away sir."

As the elf set to his task, Harry looked back down at John. "When you're ready, take that back where it belongs. Remain in here as long as you feel necessary. Summon Vitus if you feel a bit peckish."

John nodded, turning his attention back to his hands as if they held the answers his mind so desperately sought... Anything to contradict what he had already known to be the truth in his heart. Even as long ago as the Fall. As soon after it as when he had sat in Ella's office, and she had implored him to say the things he had never been able to say before. What he hadn't the courage to say until it was too late. Until...

But no. He was alive. Had been all along. And waiting for him. And now John was given the opportunity he thought stolen from him by Moriarty on that rooftop.

Jumping to his feet he snatched the phial off the table before him. John didn't need to remember where their shared room was to know where to find Sherlock. He just needed to hang onto this burning desire to tell the man exactly what he thought of him while he still had the courage to do so.

**o0o**

Sherlock had packed their belongings in the time he waited for John. Though he did not pack their Christmas gifts. Those he purposely left arranged on his old writing desk beside the window. Where it could be clearly seen from the door. Some fool's hope in him wished that, after the uncomfortable emotional battle that was due, they may yet still sit and have some semblance of normalcy in all of this.

The bulk of their luggage sat beside the door, out of the way of tramping feet. His own suitcase had, of course, carried a few extra items that he'd seen amongst his rubbish that he had forgotten he'd even owned. The most important of which had been his favorite cauldron. While cooking up his magic suppressants in his home chemistry set (and occasionally slipping a bit past Molly at Barts when he needed high intensity radiation to do a bit of modern cookery) he did still prefer the old fashioned cauldron method. It was, by far, the most effective and potent of the lot.

He had been musing over this, determined to ignore the pleasant hum just beneath his skin, when the door opened and a stocky, blond man stormed inside, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock only had a few short seconds to realize John was shouting at him.

"And I'll tell you another thing!" John continued without even noticing Sherlock hadn't heard the first bit. But he barreled onwards. "You're a selfish, irresponsible, reckless, thoughtless, arrogant man-child and so help me I'd be a miserable drunk living with his sister if not for you. God I don't know why and I must be losing my bloody mind but Sherlock I love you and if you don't like it you can just sod off!"

Awkward was not even the correct word, but it was the closest, to describe the silence that had crashed around them. Sherlock stared at him from across the room. Taking in the heaving chest, the red face and the fierce determination in those eyes. Well, determination and absolute terror. Which was understandable, if Sherlock remembered the numerous monographs he'd read on the subject of _love_ and emotional attachment.

"You've rehearsed this," he finally said, for lack of anything better to come to mind. And he just stood, blinking at him.

"Every other day for six months. And probably would have kept on if Mary hadn't started spiking my drinks with her love juice."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Potion," he corrected. " _Love juice_ just sounds disgusting."

"Yeah... Well..." John said, now looking everywhere but at Sherlock. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "There it is. I love you."

"Obviously we will need to shift the paradigm of our current relations in order to accommodate the change from a platonic to an intimate relationship. We must also set clear boundaries regarding how this will affect the Work, as I will not have you distracting me at crime scenes more than you already have."

"And crime scenes don't count as dates, and neither do car chases, investigations, and the morgue. Nothing case related."

Sherlock frowned, looking at him quizzically when the tenseness, when the absolute terror of rejection faded from John's body language. From his expression. And the look he received was softer, kinder.

John's voice showed exasperation. "What **now** Sherlock?"

"You have not requested verbal confirmation of the reciprocation of the emotional response appropriate for this situation."

"From all the data I've been hit with since we got here, I can safely say that even my slower brain could deduce it."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, just a little, into a smile John hadn't even known he'd missed for all this time. "Slower, yes. But you occasionally have your moments."

"Stop while you're ahead Sherlock. Before I change my mind and ask Harry to erase the last week and a half from both our heads."

"I'd like to see him try."

Easily they fell back into their usual banter as John crossed the room at last, commenting on the fact that Sherlock had actually cleaned - and why oh why couldn't he do that at home.

This was not going to be easy. They both knew that. And as John tentatively sat on the end of the bed, Sherlock thrusting packages at him, he knew he'd done the right thing. He could easily picture himself, well, both of them really, together for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately that vision of their future didn't include growing old and gray. After all Sherlock was, well, in his eighties. And the lifestyle they led, the dangers they willingly put themselves through-

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" John asked, looking away from him and down at the package in his hand, the paper half ripped away to reveal a box with two rather pricey phones in the picture on it.

"You're going to grow old. And so am I. And according to my godmother there's going to eventually be short and smart children. And something about hedgehogs in there as well. Not quite clear on that," Sherlock said in a dismissive tone as he waved his hand a bit, continuing on in a completely different vein as if his previous statement didn't even matter. Which of course in Sherlock's mind it was probably filtered away as unimportant and useless data. "Now about your gift. There are two phones because they were on sale. I needed to upgrade and your phone is desperately obsolete. I did not, however, transfer your number to it because you were still using it. It would have been useless to do so since I propose we buy a plan for the both of us. Thus eliminating the need for separate bills. Now, your next gift-"

"And we're not going to talk about the fact you were already buying us matching phones and considering a family plan?"

"We will. Just... not here. I would be more manageable, you will find, in our rooms at Baker Street."

John shook his head and set the phones aside just before another package was thrust into his lap. It was soft and squishy.

"It's a hideous jumper," Sherlock said before John had the chance to open it. "It's from Hermione and Ron. Apparently Ms. Granger-Weasley has taken it upon herself to continue the tradition of Weasley jumpers."

"You know this?..."

"I received two this year. Both are rather resilient to fire and acid."

With a small shake of his head John set this too aside. Gift after gift was handed to him, and Sherlock watched expectantly as he unwrapped them. The bed behind and to either side of him filled up quickly with an assortment of things from people he didn't even know. Some muggle, some not. A set of well used books on the subject of magical diseases had been given to him by Lily. He noticed only one in the lot on the table was actually for Sherlock. Untouched and bearing just a bit of a singe mark at the corner. And he recognized the paper before the slap-dash wrapping job.

"Sherlock," he said, setting a plush hedgehog aside (he was really going to have to ask Mrs. Longbottom about her obsession with those one of these days) and stood. Wading his way through the mountain of colourful scraps of paper and ribbon, he made his way to the writing desk.

Gracelessly he picked up the present and took it back to Sherlock. "You forgot one."

"No I didn't. I was saving it for-"

"Just open it, will you." He held it out, and blatantly ignored the fingers brushing his own as it was taken. Not that he didn't welcome the contact - but Sherlock's parents' house was **not** the place to start things like **that**. "I thought, maybe," he started as Sherlock meticulously unwrapped the gift. Long fingers ghosted over the fine, expensive dragonhide cover. The intricate, barely noticeable skull design embossed in a rich, dark blue that reminded him of his favorite housecoat. The design sitting just below the swirling silver initials _SH_.

"I thought you could use it. You know, for case notes. So you don't leave piles of paper scattered everywhere."

"This was custom made," Sherlock said, holding it up so that he may look down the spine. "Very fine work - Flourish and Blott's... No." He ran his finger between a few of the pages without fully opening the volume just yet. "No. The paper quality is much higher than the best they have in stock." He opened the cover, inspecting the inner seams closely before flipping through the blank pages. "Auto editing woven into the magic used to create it... That's new. You picked this on your own or were you persuaded by the shopkeeper to make this purchase?"

John shrugged. "Saw it in the window. All I had done were the front bits."

He smiled, closing the book and laying it on a nearby chair. John was quite pleased when he saw Sherlock's hand linger just a little too long on the journal before finally slipping away as if reluctant to let it go. "Must have been rather expensive. Well beyond your budget, even with the exchange rates between pounds and galleons fluctuating as they have recently."

"I could always take it back. Pop 'round to the shops and get you a student's composition book and a couple of biros."

"You will not!"

"Then don't complain."

"You'll have to pick up extra shifts."

"Worth it after that look on your face."

* * *

"The next day we packed up the rest, had a nice and peaceful breakfast while Mycroft and Lily sat under some very complicated silencing charms, and then returned home. At the end of June we were married, and by Christmas, well, we were picking out toys and furniture while waiting for our first little hedgehogs."

"And Mrs. Hudson was the new proud owner of mummy's prize winning roses," Sherlock added.

"Yes. There was that," John said with a mischievous smirk.

The twins, meanwhile, traded looks in silent communication. Holding conference until finally... "No," Harriet said.

"No?"

"No," Hudson repeated.

"Well, that's the whole story. There's nothing else for it," John said.

"What happened when you came home?" they demanded together.

"Oh no," he replied. " **No.** That... _That's_ not fit for anyone's ears. You're too young, and you'll always be too young, and Sherlock a little help here?"

"What your dad means to say," Sherlock said, laying his open book on his chest. "Is that between our return home and the day we married we had started dating. He took me to places I later complained about. I took him to places he told me were not acceptable locales and activities for a date and I was just trying to fool him into thinking I wasn't on a case. Regardless, later when I had proposed marriage, he accepted, as I had known he would. After some months we then decided to start filling our home with children who are far too clever and charismatic for their own good. And who also insist on stories that last far too long rather than allowing their parents to read books to them like normal children."

Hudson barked out a laugh. "But normal is so boring!"

John bit his lip, sharing a look with his husband before saying. "Yeah. Yeah it really is, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock replied as he picked his book back up. "I've yet to encounter anything even remotely so."

Soon after John herded the pair to their beds. As he tucked in his daughter, she smiled up at him. "So, daddy. Tell us about the time you and father found out we were going to be born."

"Maybe another time, sweetheart," he said, leaning in to kiss her goodnight.

She turned to her side, wrapping her arms around the hedgehog plus Mrs. Longbottom had given John that rather strange first Christmas with Sherlock's family.

He never did get around to asking why all those wizards and witches had been fascinated with the small, spiny creatures. But, he supposed, he really didn't need to anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks.  
> This is the last chapter.  
> But there is an epilogue on the way, so don't fret.


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically... time wise, this is around July/August 2023. Around 7-8 months after the previous chapter, and about a few months after Hamish is born.

Baker Street, well 221 at least, was in disarray. Objects flew up and down the stairs on their own. Newly turned 6 year olds ducked out of the way before finally finding cover from the floating furniture.

Amongst the chaos Sherlock paced back and forth in the living room, a child aged only a few months in his arms. Wrapped in scraps of John's favorite jumpers sewn together to make a rather cozy blanket. "I can't think with all this madness!"

"Not my fault!" John shouted over the clatter of dishes cleaning themselves in the kitchen.

"I know!" Sherlock shouted back, trying his best to soothe his upset child. It was difficult, having a baby that didn't make a single sound. It meant not being able to pick up on verbal cues and specific noises to deduce what may be wrong.

"Here! Take him!" Sherlock shouted, handing the baby off to John.

"What should I do? We've fed him, changed him, bathed him, tried to put him down for a nap, played with him! He's not got a fever! And-"

"I don't know! You'll think of something!" he shouted back as he pulled out his wand, dashing out the door into the stairwell.

Something had to be done to stay this chaos. Once the twins' room had been emptied and refilled with furniture they'd had in their bedroom for Hamish, the door had slammed shut. He continued upstairs, to the attic room where Harriet and Hudson's belongings had been sent flying. The twins themselves were crowded into the corner of the landing, their eyes wide in a mixture of confusion and surprise. When the strangeness had begun the pair of them had been in their room, quietly studying. Not bothering anyone really.

"Are you alright?" their father asked, kneeling down to examine them closely. They silently nodded as the last piece of their furniture, a silk screen divider their grandfather had given them for their birthday, slid into place to separate the two sides of the large space.

Below there sounded a loud, obnoxious pounding on the front door. Sherlock stood and leaned over the railing. "Go away!" he shouted. "We don't want any more visitors, well-wishers, or scheming relations today!"

John's head popped into view as he looked up over the rail at the B level. "That's not how it goes! I should never have let you watch that film before bed."

"Just get the door while I sort all this out!"

Sherlock bounded back down the stairs, back to the B level and into the flat where the kitchen was still reorganizing itself. He peered through the sliding partition to see that now the living room was shuffling itself about.

John, when Sherlock had bounded down, had maneuvered out of the way with an ease that can only come from years of marriage and child wrangling (some of the time at crime scenes), so as not to be knocked over. He made his way downstairs, having to adjust his hold on an impatient and wiggling baby while attempting to open the door just as another round of banging began. "Yes! Hold on!" he shouted at the still closed door, as at the last moment the baby had decided he didn't want to be held the way he was being held, and John needed both arms to keep from dropping him.

"Sherlock! Have you got it sorted yet!?"

There was a loud crash, followed by a round of swearing that would have made even the boys and girls down at the yard quite proud. Then, after that, a resounding call of "Mischief managed!" That phrase had become, not long after bringing their troublesome infant into the muggle world, their most used statement for dealing with the unexplainable and quite chaotic bursts of accidental magic the little boy seemed to set off.

Though, this had been the worst case of it yet.

John sighed in relief and finally managed to open the door to find a startling sight.

It was, in fact, the last thing he ever expected to see when he opened his front door. And he had quite a wide range of imaginary (or possibly quite real and Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell him about them yet) things that could have been there to face him. But this was definitely not it.

There, with her fist raised to bang on the door again, was his sister Harriet. His sister, who had run off to God only knows in Germany after he'd moved off her sofa and in with Mary. His sister who had dropped off the face of the planet to live in a hippie commune with her latest girlfriend who, according to Harriet, was the love of her life and she couldn't live without her.

And at her feet were a suitcase and a rucksack.

"I checked the blog to see where you'd moved to. So, you're back here," she said, eyeing the baby in his arms suspiciously.

While he was glad to see his sister was alive and well after not hearing from her for years, he really didn't have the time or the patience to deal with whatever drama it was she currently dragged around with her. Even if she had obviously been kicked out of where ever it had been she'd got to.

"You broke it off after you caught her cheating. Longer relationship than your marriage, so you were obviously heartbroken. Angry as well judging by the fact you left all your other belongings behind, taking only what you could carry."

"Sherlock, now isn't really the time-"

"You've been out of the country for years, so obviously you need a place to stay. Low on funds, otherwise you would have booked a room in a cheap motel for a few days while you cleaned yourself up and made to be presentable." Sherlock's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. Then, he gave a glance to John before continuing. "You smell of cigarettes and cheap beer. We're full up. Go away."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "She's my sister and she needs-"

"And clearly she isn't in a fit state to be around children, of which we have three, at this point in time. Give me Hamish and send her away." With that, Sherlock plucked the clearly amused child (if his chubby little grin was anything to go by) from his husband's arms and hurried up the seventeen stairs to B level.

"John?" His sister was clearly not expecting that. She'd said she had checked his blog, assuming he'd post about where he lived at some point. Clearly she had realized he'd moved back to Baker Street, and if she'd paid any attention she'd have noticed he still posted about Sherlock's cases.

What he never, ever posted about, was his family. It just wasn't on. His marriage, and especially his children, were not on display for the public. Especially after they had turned so viciously on them before with the Richard Brook scandal. So of course, John realized, she'd not know anything about them. Nor the fact he wasn't with the woman she'd left him with.

"I thought- But he was dead- And you met that girl and-"

John sighed, stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind him. "Let's sit next door and I'll get your a sandwich."

"A sandwich? A sandwich isn't going to explain-"

He put a hand on his older sister's shoulder. He'd sometimes discussed with Mycroft what he'd eventually have to tell his sister. Of course, he'd have to modify a few things. Such as the connection to Harry Potter, as mummy was one to be left alone whenever possible. But in the end, Mycroft had reluctantly agreed that should Harriet Watson ever turn up again, she'd have to know why her niece and nephews would occasionally turn her sofa into a fish tank or other such unexplainable phenomena.

"Harriet," John said. "Right now the most important thing you need to know is that I married a wizard. I don't care if you don't believe me. Right now he's very annoyed with you, but he's never really liked you much anyway. So it's best we go next door before he does something I'm going to need to shout at him for later." He let his hand fall away as he bent down to grasp the handle of her suitcase.

"A wha-"

"A wizard. Yes." He picked up her case and started down the steps. "It started about six months after Sherlock came back from his fake death. We were just wrapping up a case. Sherlock was doing one final experiment in the kitchen. And then the owl came..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, friends. The epilogue. This is it for the story of when John found out Sherlock was a wizard, as well as the tale of how they came to finally tell it. Originally this fic was to be about 1-2 more chapters longer than this, but due to some sudden family crisis (both writers are in the same family) we made the executive decision to hammer out a final chapter and an epilogue in order to save this fic from landing in Unfinished Fanfic Limbo. We just couldn't do that to you guys - and we couldn't do that to ourselves. There was a scene between Harry and John, where they talk about parenting and Hudson, but it had to be cut. It was not fully developed yet, and we couldn't bring it from the roughs and into the fic proper without difficulty. It will be included as a bonus drabble, along with another currently unwritten but it's still a fun idea drabble, exclusive to the PDF download version once we get that put together and sorted.
> 
> We'd like to thank all of you for sticking with us this long. We've got another fic in this universe that's been developing for a while, and we'll do our best to work and write around our crisis to bring this other fic to you. Basically, it's about Harry and Draco, and how they hooked up in 6th year and where our crossover AU starts to go, well, AU. So be on the lookout for it!


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